These Days
by Enlee
Summary: House is out of the asylum. Can things return to normal between House and Cuddy and Wilson? House/Cuddy and House/Wilson friendship. The last chapter is now up. Please R&R!
1. Chapter 1

Cuddy figured she could keep him in line when she hired him. She was the boss after all, and employees listen to their boss if they want that paycheck. That also applied to the notorious Gregory House. A little push here if he got out of line. A stern talking to there when a patient complained. Some advice from Wilson if the former two weren't enough. Then he'd go back to solving his puzzles, she'd go back to running the hospital, and everything would be just find and dandy. She had hired some of the best doctors from all over the world to work for her in Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Some of the best doctors she had ever worked with came with a little controversy and thought outside the box. She knew what she getting into when she set Dr. House loose in her hospital. Didn't she?

Turned out she didn't know jack shit about what she was getting into with Gregory House.

Then she had to go and fall madly in love with the smug bastard. Turned out she didn't know jack shit about what she was getting into with that, either. And she reveling in every second of it.

* * *

Wilson was busy with a patient that needed extra attention, so Cuddy had to pick up House by herself. Even after explaining where his best friend was and why he was at the hospital instead of carrying his suitcase to the car, House still grumbled about Wilson not taking half an hour of his precious time to come see him.

"His patient needs him more right now," Cuddy said. "He'd be here if he could and you know it."

House glared across the parking lot at her car, the wind weaving through his shaggy hair, and muttered, "Yeah, I know it. That doesn't mean I have to like it."

"No, you don't. But you don't have to bitch about for days on end, either." She took a step closer and noted his haggard features and sunken eyes. "You look like hell. Have you slept?"

"No," he replied curtly, and picked up his suitcase. "Let's get the hell out of here before they decide that they screwed up their paper work and have keep me here another month to get it all straightened out."

They walked side by side under a sky that was gathering more clouds by the hour. The forecast had promised rain later in the day and it looked like the weather was going to keep its promise. Cuddy wanted to take his hand, but both were occupied with his cane and suitcase. She had to settle for walking as closely as possible beside him. "What was keeping you awake?"

"I've been kind of riled up about something for the past few days."

"About what?"

"About wanting to get out of here and wanting to see you."

"You missed me, House?"

"Damn right I did."

Of course. Coming home and sharing the bed with her again dominated their conversations during her visits. She smiled and noted he was looking at her and almost smiling himself. "Yes, well…I've been wanting you to get out of here and have been wanting to see you, so I guess that makes us even."

"I suppose," he replied with a low chuckle. "Let's go before they change their minds and drag me back inside."

* * *

Cuddy and Wilson had taken turns looking after House's apartment; dusting and changing the linen and double-checking that the bills got paid. They had gone on a cleaning and shopping splurge the week before House was due to come back. Cuddy had washed his bedding and had a cleaning service come in and scrub down apartment until it was as sterile as the average operating room while Wilson had gone grocery shopping and stocked the kitchen with House's favorites. They planned to have a quiet dinner to celebrate House's homecoming.

If House noticed his apartment floor was clean enough to eat their upcoming dinner on, he didn't say a word. He just muttered "I need to sit down" before dropping his suitcase and plopping down on the sofa with an exaggerated sigh.

"Are you hungry?" she asked. "I can make some breakfast if you want."

House didn't answer, just shook his head.

"How about some coffee?"

Another shake of his head.

"Is something wrong?" Concerned, Cuddy came around the table and sat down. "Are you feeling okay?"

"Just tired, that's all," he answered thickly, and Cuddy could picture him spend every night over the last week staring at the ceiling, looking past the ceiling, looking forward to the day he could finally say goodbye to the asylum and hello to home. Though she and Wilson had visited him every chance she got, it wasn't enough. The doctor had become the patient and House had despised every second of it. House despised the rules enforced on him, living by a schedule that wasn't made out by him, and sometimes took his resentment and frustration out on the wrong person. Though House never talked about it, she knew he had been in a few fights, and forced into restraints and sedated more than once. But that was over and done with. He was free. He was safely back in his home, his sanctuary. And he had been so psyched up about it that he was now a tad bit too exhausted to fully enjoy it.

He turned to Cuddy, his blue eyes dull and bloodshot, and said, "Do me a favor and spare the talk until tomorrow."

"No worries," she replied with a smile that seemed to put him at ease for the moment. "Let's get you settled in first and we'll take it from there."

"Okay." House sounded relieved.

Reaching up to stroke her thumb along the perpetual seven o'clock shadow that covered his sharp cheekbone, which seemed to relax him to the point where she thought he would settle back and take a nap right then and there, she said quickly, "Wilson will be over later tonight and we have a nice dinner planned for you."

"That's fine," he said absently; Cuddy reminded herself that his seeming disregard for the two people he cared about most in the world was the result of his lack of sleep and not a lack of interest in what they had planned for him. "What's for dessert?"

"Wilson baked a cake."

"Chocolate?"

"Of course."

"Good." He leaned into her palm; his stubble rubbing and scratching at her palm like sandpaper. "I feel so special."

"You are special," she said pointedly, making sure he heard every syllable.

"Thank you," he replied and meant it. "I need to lay down in my own bed for a while."

Cuddy knew that sooner rather than later he'd be out cold for a few hours and bouncing off the walls for the rest of the day and all of the night, and there wasn't a damn thing she could do about it. Nodding towards his bedroom, she told him, "Go on, then. Do you need me to bring you anything?"

"Yes." He clamped a hand around her wrist. "You."

"Me?" she puzzled.

"You heard me."

"What for?"

"Because I said so." He pulled himself up and tugged at her arm. "You're not about to deny the lover who spent many lonely weeks without you this one little request, are you now?"


	2. Chapter 2

Unsure of why House wanted her with him and what he really had in mind, Cuddy simply followed him to the bedroom and stood back near the dresser, watching. He sat down on the edge of the bed with a grunt and toed off his sneakers, then pulled off his socks and absently tossed them to the floor. As he had done a million times before, House reached into his pocket and pulled out the all too familiar bottle of Vicodin, tipping two into his mouth and swallowing with barely a second thought. With a yawn he flopped back onto the bed and closed his eyes.

After a while he muttered, "Patience is a virtue, Cuddy," then opened his eyes, turning his head to look at her.

"Which of us is the virtue for?"

"For both of us."

"Why do you say that?" She walked to the foot of the bed and waited.

"A lot of fun and games have gone on this here bed--"

"That's an interesting way of putting it," she said, as memories of being tangled in the sheets with him flashed through her head. She was sure more new memories would be created in the next few days.

"--but right now I'm too damned drained to ride that ride," House continued, sitting up and pulling his right leg onto the bed, then stretching his long legs out until his bare feet were close enough for her to reach out and tickle. "So the carnival is closed until further notice."

"You're too tired to screw my brains out right now is what you're trying to say."

"Pretty much. But I wouldn't mind a little company for the time being."

Raising an eyebrow, Cuddy asked, "You wanted me to come in here so I can watch you sleep?"

"No, I wanted you to come in here and watch me fall asleep." He patted the empty side of the bed. "Come here."

Without comment she walked over to the other side of the bed, pausing only to take her shoes off before taking her spot next to him. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body. Close enough to see the redness in his weary eyes.

"You washed the bedding yesterday," House noted dryly.

"You can tell? How do you know it was yesterday?"

"It's only ten in the morning, and I can't see you doing my laundry at the crack of the dawn just for the hell of it. I can smell that fabric softener you use."

"You don't use any, so I had to bring mine," Cuddy said. House would probably wash his laundry only once a month if he thought it was possible to get away with it. It was pretty close to amazing that House took the time to wash his clothes and bedding at all. She wondered if he had ever tricked Wilson into doing that for him and made a mental note to ask the oncologist later. "I figured sleeping in some clean and soft sheets would be nice little treat for you for the next few days."

Turning on his side, House said, "It is."

For a moment Cuddy was silent, sure that he would launch into a bitchfest about the scent of the fabric softener, a scent he had dismissed as "flowery to the point of being pungent" and "too girly" for him before.

House went on: "Spending a few months in an asylum makes sleeping with this girly smell seem like pure heaven."

In between his monologues about wanting to come home during her visits, House complained about anything and everything the asylum had to offer. The doctors (or "quacks" as he called them, sometimes to their faces), his room, his bed, the food, the various medications he took that made him feel loopy, the other patients, the other patients' visitors; if it existed within his sight during his stay at the asylum, House bitched about it. She learned to take it in stride and let him vent at her, figuring his blowing off some steam when she was there saved him from going ballistic, being held down by four burly orderlies and sedated against his will a few times.

"Your time there helped you with your hallucinations."

"It did, and I never said it didn't."

"Isn't that what you wanted? You wanted help none of us could give you."

"Yes."

"You got that help didn't you?"

"I got it, but sometimes I wonder if the trade-off was worth it."

Threading her fingers through his, she said, "It wasn't that bad, House."

"No, it wasn't. It was worse."

A knot formed in her stomach as Cuddy asked, "Did something happen, House?"

House turned over onto his back and replied, "I saw two dead people who wouldn't go away and checked myself into an asylum. That's what happened. It wasn't one little thing, it was the whole experience. You have no idea how scared I was…how afraid that once I went in that place…that I'd never come back out."

Carerfully, she asked, "Why did you check yourself in; if you were so afraid, why did you do it?"

"Because I was more afraid of what might have happened if I hadn't checked myself in," House sounded like he was confessing a sin, staring past the ceiling.

"What do you think might have happened?" Worried about House, it took everything she had to keep her voice from wavering.

What might have happened? Cuddy didn't want to think about it. She tried her damndest not to think about it even as blurry pictures of finding him with a several empty bottles of Vicodin or knife held to his wrists swam into sharp focus…

With much relief he interrupted her thoughts by waving a hand dismissively. "Not now," he said as he rolled back over to face her, reaching out and pulling her closer like she was a giant stuffed animal. He draped an arm across her middle, basically pinning her to the bed. "You don't have to stay here all day…just stay here until I fall asleep, okay?"

"I will," she said. And she did.

It was only a few minutes before House was out cold and snoring away, which meant that Cuddy could have inched her way out from under his arm and left the room so he could finish his nap alone. But she didn't do that, not right then. Just leaving him there alone seemed ridiculous. He needed her and she was going to be there whenever and wherever he needed her. For more than an hour she stayed with him, wanting to make up for some of the time they had lost. Too much time, she thought with regret, and slowly twisted around in his embrace until she could unbutton his shirt and feel more of his warmth and more of his skin under the palms of her hands.


	3. Chapter 3

The nights without House had been too long and too lonely. She was glad he was getting the help he needed, of course, but that didn't mean she had to like being separated from him for months on end. Her visits always seemed to be over too soon, his phone calls always seemed to end too soon. It had been hell for her too, a completely different kind of hell, but hell nonetheless. Cuddy and Wilson had taken turns looking after his apartment, sometimes sleeping over. She had taken to wearing his tee-shirts and sleeping on his side of the bed when she stayed overnight in his apartment; a few of the tee-shirts had made it to her house for her to sleep in. They were now safely tucked back in his drawer. She was waiting for him to open it and comment about how they were all folded differently as the scent of her fabric softener wafted up from them.

Feeling restless and hungry, Cuddy carefully inched her way out from under his arm and sat up. Looking down at the man in her thoughts, the man who very rarely left her thoughts anymore, and saw his calmness like the morning outside, his vulnerability, his concerns pushed aside for an all-too-brief moment of peace and quiet. House, with his usual prickly beard and rumpled clothes; he looked like a pile of laundry that needed to be ironed, folded and put away.

If only fixing all his troubles were that easy.

She brushed her fingers against his. He didn't stir.

_What really happened in the asylum, House? What did you find out about yourself in there? Will you ever tell me?_

The chill in the air was still hanging on to what was left of the morning. She found a light blanket in the hall closet and covered up the napping diagnostician with it, then went to call Wilson to let him know that House had made it home, safe and sound.

* * *

Gregory House woke up with a start and blinked at the bright sunshine punching its way through the windows. Feeling dazed and breathless and flushed, he blinked again as the room came into focus: The hardwood floors, the guitars hanging from the walls, the old alarm clock that still worked perfectly so he couldn't find an excuse to buy a new one. His things. His room. Not the cold, impersonal, battleship gray rooms of the asylum. He was back in his apartment.

_Is this for real?_

Not long into his stay at the asylum he had had several vivid dreams about being back home and back with Cuddy; Amber and Kutner had never magically appeared to torment him and he was still Head of Diagnostics at Princeton Plainsboro. Needless to say, he had woken up from those dreams in a less-than-cheery mood. When one of the doctors asked about his sudden gloominess, House wanted more than anything to throw a chair at the idiot. The possibility of hurting his leg during the chair-throwing was the only thing that stopped him. He settled for a long tirade questioning the guy's education, species, his mother's species and his mating habits. The doctor didn't get within twenty feet of House ever again.

_Is it really over? If this is another goddamned dream…_

He blinked again and his room was still there. He was still in his bedroom, surrounded by his things; the faintest hint of a tickle as a bead of sweat slowly ran down his neck into the hollow of his collarbone. No dream. He was back home. A faint wheeze escaped his mouth as an immense feeling of relief shuddered down his spine.

The air seemed stifling; he looked down at the blanket that was tangled around his legs. With a grunt he ripped it off and threw it on the floor. That blanket was kept in the hall closet; he only got it out in the winter to burrow under and keep warm while he watched television. He wouldn't get it out now.

Because he didn't get the blanket out and drape it over himself. Someone else had done that.

"Cuddy?" House called out.

He waited for her reply, listening for the sound of her voice. There was no reply. He thought he heard footsteps but wasn't sure.

_Don't let her be out running errands or else I'll really lose my mind this time._

The sound of running water, dull and far-off. The kitchen sink. She was in the kitchen and didn't hear him.

"_Cuddy_!" he yelled, and was a bit startled when his voice rebounded off the walls and rang in his ears.

"House?"

Her voice, then footsteps, then her shadow before she appeared in the door. Apprehension filled her eyes as she rushed over to him. "House, is something wrong?" She touched his face and frowned. "You're all sweaty. Did you have a nightmare? Is that why you called out for me?"

"No…no…," he replied quickly. He gave her a small smile and saw her tension go down a notch. "I just…I just woke up and for a second didn't know where I was. I guess I was afraid this would turn out to be another hallucination."

"But this isn't a hallucination, is it?"

"No."

"It's all very real, House. You're not at Mayfield anymore so _relax_. It's over." He watched as she picked up the blanket and threw it over the foot of the bed, then turned her attention back to him. "The hallucinations are gone and they're not coming back, are they?"

"No, they're not."

"That's right."

She wasn't looking him in the eye. Following her gaze, House looked down and saw why: his shirt was unbuttoned all the way and hanging wide open. Quickly she reached over and began redo the buttons, and House swore he saw her lick her lips. The same person who brought him the blanket had also unbuttoned his shirt while he was asleep. He bit his lip to keep from laughing as she finished with the buttons and smoothed down the front of his shirt.

"There," she said, sounding strangely satisfied with finishing the task. "That's better." This time she looked him in the eye. "How about you? You feeling better?"

"I'm fine," he replied, and meant it. "Just need a little more time to come back to earth, that's all."

"I know," she said. "Where are you now, House?"

"I'm not at the asylum, Cuddy, and I'm not going back."

"Good," she said, and gave him a big smile. "Did you eat breakfast this morning?"

He shook his head and answered, "I was too wound up to eat."

"Are you too wound up to eat lunch?" Cuddy asked, standing up.

"I'd love some lunch."

"Come on, then. Wilson made some sandwiches for you last night."

"Did he now." House smirked. "Yummy. Can't get that in an asylum."


	4. Chapter 4

Knowing that his friend would demand real food and demand it _now_, Wilson made up a few of his famous roast beef sandwiches for Cuddy to keep House placated until dinner. Cuddy swore she saw House's eyes light up when he learned exactly what was on the lunch menu, and a heaping mound of his favorite potato chips made it all the more delectable. She barely had time to set the plate on the table before he was attacking it like a half-starved wolverine.

She waited until House took a moment from inhaling his sandwiches and chips, watching as he drained half his glass of milk in three gulps before saying, "I talked to Wilson while you were asleep."

"Our Wilson?"

"No, Wilson the volleyball from that Tom Hanks movie. What do you think?"

House looked up, a milk moustache clinging to his upper lip. "He talked to you? Why didn't he talk to me?"

"Because you were asleep."

"You could have woke me up, you know."

"You were tired and crashed on the bed, House. You obviously needed the rest."

He picked up some chips and popped them in his mouth. "I was asleep, not in a coma. You still could have woke me up," he grumbled between bites.

"And if I had, you would have bitched and moaned about that six ways to Sunday."

As House glanced up with a wry smile and questioning raise of an eyebrow, she added, "Tell me I'm wrong. Wilson told me not to wake you up anyway, so you can quit your griping anytime today and finish your lunch."

"You missed me and my griping."

"That's exactly what I told Wilson when I called him."

"What did Wilson say?"

"He just laughed and said I was right--the pig."

"You and Wilson…just _talking_. Riiiiight. Telling secrets about me, Cuddy?"

His biggest demons--namely the hallucinations Amber and Kutner--slayed and buried for now, House was relaxed and at ease. Of course, good food in his stomach and a nap in his own bed didn't hurt. Cuddy was taking the next two days off to help him adjust and come back down to earth. Then there was the little matter of House getting his license back. House had had his taste of being the patient and he had choked on every bitter piece of it, washing it all down with a tall glass of resentment. There were puzzles out there waiting to be solved. That's what he lived for. She wasn't going to bring it up. He could do that…and would, once the boredom and restlessness set in. There was only so much that could keep him distracted for only so long, and if he didn't find something to keep his mind occupied he'd end up right back at Mayfield for a completely different reason, and have Cuddy and Wilson as his roommates.

She snatched a chip and replied, "We talked about you, but what we talked about was hardly a secret."

"He's too busy to come see me, but has all the time in the world to chit-chat with you," House snorted, then turned back to his lunch.

"We talked for maybe three minutes, if that," Cuddy informed him. "He said that he would be by around six and that he's looking forward to seeing you."

"He is," House said, though there was no trace of sarcasm in his voice. If Cuddy didn't any better she'd say that House seemed a bit grateful to hear that Wilson was looking forward to having dinner with him. "Having nobody to bowl with for months must have really got to him. He'll be dragging me out there as soon as possible. I love the smell of freshly disinfected bowling shoes in the morning."

Cuddy told him, "I went bowling with him a few times."

"You're joking."

"I'm not joking. I think Chase did too."

"Okay, now you're joking."

"Wilson needed to get out of his apartment and enjoy himself for a while. No harm, no foul."

House looked her in the eye and smirked. "He kicked your ass up and down the bowling alley, didn't he?"

Cuddy laughed and snatched another chip. "I went bowling with him maybe seven or eight times. I think I got one strike. Wilson got at least one strike in every game."

"Don't mess with the second best," House said, then washed down the last of his sandwich with the last of his milk.

Resting her chin on one hand and the other hand brushing along his fingertips, Cuddy asked, "Wilson is only second best? So who is the best?"

With a mock scowl, House exclaimed in an overbaked, overly dramatic voice, "Do you really have to ask?"


	5. Chapter 5

Two sharp raps at the front door.

"Come in!" Cuddy yelled while fiddling with the timer on the stove.

A faint yapping squeak of the hinges as the door was opened and closed, then a familiar figure filled the doorway. "Well, well." Wilson walked into the kitchen and beamed at his friend as the many fine aromas wafting from the stove hung in the air like a fog. "Look who's here. Good to have you back."

"Thanks," House muttered as he poured himself another glass of ginger ale, unable to hide the fact that he was glad to hear that.

As he shrugged out of his suit jacket and hung it on the back of a chair, the oncologist asked, "How does it feel to be back home?" He asked the question just for the sake of asking. Cuddy hadn't been the only one subjected to House's long-winded monologues about wanting to come home.

He expected one of House's stinging comments, but only got a simple "Fine" for an answer.

"Just '_fine_'?" All Wilson could do was stand there in disbelief.

House chuckled. "You don't believe me?"

"Can't say that I do."

"Care to explain why?"

"You would have used a spoon to tunnel your way out of that place if you could, and all you can say is 'fine'? All you did during our visits was bitch, whine and moan and bitch some more. I guess I was expecting an hour-long soliloquy on why it's so great to be home again." Wilson said. From behind him came the sound of Cuddy snickering.

House said, "I'm saving the Shakespearean- in-magnitude soliloquies for later." He looked over Wilson's shoulder at the steaming pots and pans. "What I really want now is some _dinner_!"

"Fifteen minutes," Cuddy informed him.

"_Now_!"

Turning to meet his gaze, she said, "Unless you want your dinner to jump up and run away, you'll wait another fifteen minutes."

"She's torturing me on purpose," House grumbled. "Making up for lost time…"

"I could very well say the same thing about you," she said while flipping over the sizzling chicken breasts. "How on earth can you still be hungry, anyway? All you did today was eat."

"There's always room for real food, Cuddy. Even Wilson has to agree with that."

"I do agree," the oncologist confirmed. Then to Cuddy, "Need any help?"

House snorted. "You're a _guest _here, remember? Why are you volunteering to help?"

"Because I'm a polite person and that's what polite people do. You can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar and all that. You really should try it sometime."

"I can squash plenty of flies without going through all the trouble of trying to remember where the I put the honey or the vinegar," House offered. "You should try it sometime. Now be a good little oncologist and help Dr. Cuddy while I sit back and watch my guests do all the work just because they want to."

Wilson shook his head. "What the hell did you feed him today?"

Cuddy grinned. "What _you_ made for him. I don't need any help over here but you can get the plates out."

Wilson did just that, and got out the silverware and glasses before rejoining his friend at the table.

Surreptitiously he looked over House from head to toe. On the surface he didn't seem any worse for the wear. A little thinner maybe, and little sleep-deprived--like that was anything new. But Wilson had known House for a very long time and knew what to look for. It was in House's eyes. Wilson could see a sliver of anxiety and fear beneath the electric blue. Only a fool would think that House had left all his troubles behind at Mayfield. And House would be the first person to point that out.

The diagnostician caught his friend staring. "You can stop anytime."

"Stop what?" Wilson feigned innocence.

"You've been here for less then ten minutes and it's already rearing its ugly head."

"What are you talking about now?"

House leaned forward. "Your need to protect me," he offered quietly. "Your need to be needed. It's as plain as day, Wilson, don't even try to deny it."

"I'm here to welcome you home," Wilson began defensively, "and to share a nice dinner with you."

"That's today. What will tomorrow bring? Or they next day? Or the day after that?"

"I guess we'll find out."

"And you can't wait." House smiled wickedly. "We both know that it's just a matter of _when_, not _if_, _when_ I'll need some kind of help again. Any kind of help will do. You're not too picky when it comes to that. Too bad there's no one else around here who's as needy as I am. However did you pass the time while I was away?"

"I went bowling with Cuddy," Wilson answered, aware of how ridiculous it sounded only after he said it.

"Yes, she told me all about it." House seemed genuinely amused. "It just wasn't the same, was it?"

"No," he said, standing up as Cuddy announced that dinner was ready. "The only thing she needed from me was to show her how to keep the bowling ball from spinning off course."


	6. Chapter 6

A good meal soothed the savage beast within House and this meal was no different. He attacked his meal with all the grace of a shark in a feeding frenzy until Cuddy told him he was going to make himself sick and wouldn't be able to enjoy the cake that had been made especially for him. House made a half-assed effort in complaining, but the thought of enjoying a huge slab of chocolate cake outweighed spending the rest of the night with an upset stomach and heartburn. He slowed down and began to eat the rest of his meal with something that resembled table manners.

Wilson watched his friends and noted the stolen glances, the accidentally-on-purpose brushing of their fingers, the private jokes. Picking up where they had left off. Cuddy had been diligent with her visits to Mayfield, with only honest-to-God emergencies keeping her away. House didn't come right out and say it, but did imply that their visits gave him something to look forward to. If House had said something similar to Cuddy, she never bothered to mention it. Maybe he did in a moment of weakness, Wilson thought, and told her not to say anything to save him some future embarrassment.

"The sludge they served at Mayfield was worse than airline food," House spoke up before inhaling a forkful of mashed potatoes.

"So you've told us a million times," Wilson said, and decided against changing the subject. Let House get his seemingly endless list of complaints about the asylum out in the open and out of his system. The sooner the better.

"Now it's a million and one. Actually, comparing it to airline food might be too kind. It was worse than cheap frozen dinners and cheap fast food."

"You live on that stuff," Cuddy reminded him. "You have at least half a dozen take-out numbers on your speed-dial and I threw out some frozen dinners that had been in your freezer since the Clinton administration."

"My point exactly. That makes me the perfect judge of Mayfield's food." House made it sound like the most important job in the world.

Wilson asked, "So you've turned into Gordon Ramsay now?"

House scarfed down a few more bites of his dinner before answering, "Not hardly. I'm the average man out looking for something edible. Nothing fancy, just edible. Like I said, that makes me the perfect judge."

"How so?" Cuddy asked, leaning forward, honestly wanting to hear his answer.

"If you can make some McNuggets and fries look like a five-star meal, then your bar isn't set very high. Cheap Chinese take-out tastes like cheap Chinese take-out…ergo, I know slop when I taste it, and the shit they served at Mayfield wasn't fit for the raccoons."

"Did you really see raccoons out there? I thought they didn't allow pets in your rooms," Wilson joked.

"I saw one or two raccoons, and there were about a million squirrels. I'm sure they have plenty of Xanax stored for winter."

* * *

Underneath all the layers of madness, indifference, selfishness, cockiness, misanthropy, and addiction was a brilliant and calculating mind. Said brilliant and calculating mind had just spent endless months in an asylum, trying to keep a grip on its sanity. That battle had been won but the war was far from over. House evidently felt he had something to prove when he challenged Wilson to a game of chess.

"I figured you'd be dying for some cake right now," Wilson said as he helped Cuddy wash the dishes. "I put extra chocolate frosting on it because I know it's your favorite."

"The cake isn't going anywhere," House pointed out. "Right now I'm in the mood to kick your ass over sixty-four squares."

"House, really. You just got home today. Just relax and take it easy. There will be plenty of time for chess later."

"There's plenty of time for one lousy game of chess _now_."

"Even one game of chess takes forever."

"Too bad, so sad." He leveled his gaze at Cuddy. "Did you play chess with him while I was gone?"

"We just went bowling," she answered, rinsing off a handful of silverware. "I haven't played chess in ages. I'm probably as good at that as I am at bowling."

House grinned triumphantly. "Sounds like Wilson and I could use a little brushing up. Where's my chess set?"

"It's safe, don't worry," Cuddy told him.

"Really? You didn't throw it out with the ancient TV dinners, did you?"

Cuddy said, "It's on the shelf where it always is."

"It'll take forever and a day, House," Wilson protested, "and I have a million things to do tomorrow."

"Well, we better get started."

"House--"

"It's one game, Wilson," House pointed out. "It's not like I'm asking you to bring me the moon or anything.

Wilson gave his best puppy-dog eyes to Cuddy in hopes of getting some support. She didn't buy it for a nanosecond. "It's one game. It's not going to kill you."

The oncologist turned back to his smirking friend. "One game…on one condition."

"Which is…?"

"We have cake and ice cream first."

"What kind of ice cream?"

"Chocolate chocolate chip."

"More chocolate?" House gaped. "Are you two trying to kill me with some kind of weird chocolate overdose or something?"

Getting three small plates out of the cupboard, Wilson said, "We're trying to placate you with chocolate. Maybe you'll go into a sugar-induced coma and forget about the stupid chess game."

"Not on your life," House replied with a wicked grin. "Now slice me a big hunk of that cake so we can hurry up and get on with the carnage."


	7. Chapter 7

"You let me win," House declared as Wilson began to gather up the chess pieces.

Wilson paused with a handful of pawns hovering over the box and said, "I beg your pardon" before unceremoniously dropping them inside, a few of scattering back onto the table.

"You didn't want to play in the first place, so you tried to make the game go as quickly as possible by letting me win," House explained, looking more like he was enjoying himself rather than being angry while voicing his accusation. "So you decided to gratify me and make me feel all pretty inside by letting me win."

Gathering up the escapee pawns and putting the cover back on the box, Wilson said, "I did no such thing."

"You can't lie your way out of a wet paper bag, Dr. Wilson."

"House, you won the game."

"Did I really?"

"Yes, you did really. Do us all a favor and get over it and move on with your life already."

"_Never_."

"If I say I let you win, will you shut up?" the oncologist asked his friend.

"Nope."

"If I say I didn't let you win and you won fair and square, will you shut up?"

"Not a chance."

"Would you mind enlightening us to what will shut you up?"

"More cake." House held out the plate to Cuddy and gave her the most overdramatic pleading look he could muster. "Pretty please with another scoop of ice cream on top."

Amused, Cuddy took the plate. "What are you, a bottomless pit?" she asked, standing up.

House answered, "Since Mr. Chess Wizard here can't be bothered to give me a run for my money, I'm going to have his cake and eat it too."

* * *

Though he knew that sleep would be a long time coming, House accompanied Cuddy to bed. He smiled as she nonchalantly pulled one of the shirts out the drawer and slipped it on, daring him to say something. "It's a little big for you" was all he said and she laughed before curling up next to him and peppering his face kisses, which he returned with interest. Cuddy had eaten her fair share of dinner and dessert, and the drowsiness was quick to catch up with her. It was less than fifteen minutes before she was sound asleep. House let himself drift for a while, relishing the fact that he was back in his own bed and Cuddy was there with him.

Two hours later he was wide awake again, trying to push away the fear that he would hear Amber's voice again. Trying to push away the fear that his nightmare would start all over again. _I will not go back to Mayfield. I will not go back to that, _he thought, feeling his heartbeat start to race, a cold sweat trickle down his scalp. He concentrated on getting reacquainted with the creaks of his apartment and Cuddy's warm breath on his neck and the occasional sigh escaping her lips as she slept on. He concentrated on what he should do tomorrow and the next day; errands he should run, things he should do to try and stay occupied.

Half an hour passed. Amber's voice was nowhere to be heard. That didn't stop him from being afraid that she would appear out of thin air, just drop out of the sky like she had done before. Not only was he was afraid that Amber and Kutner might be back for a sequel, he was afraid that if anyone else knew about said fear that he'd be shipped right back to Mayfield where he'd spend the rest of his life weaving baskets and eating the vanilla pudding the nice young men in white coats brought for him. Cuddy and Wilson, tired of dealing with him and his bullshit, would sever all ties and he wouldn't blame them…

_Get a grip on yourself, you idiot_, House thought angrily. _Amber and Kutner are dead_. _They're gone. They're not coming back. Ever._

_Are you sure about that?_

_I'm quite sure. Now can I offer you a nice tall glass of shut the fuck up?_

Another twenty minutes passed and House was finally able to relax again. But he was still wide awake. And thirsty.

Carefully maneuvering himself away from Cuddy, House got up and shuffled straight to the kitchen, making a beeline to the liquor cabinet. He poured himself a brandy, all but threw it down his throat, and poured himself another. Bringing the bottle with him, House limped to the living, intent on playing catch-up with the soaps Cuddy and Wilson had recorded for him. Then his gaze fell on the piano.

He had been sitting at the piano when Amber first appeared to him.

He had never been able to figure out why she had just materialized out of nowhere on that particular night. She just did. And he was better off not knowing why.

The urge to watch his soaps disappeared into oblivion as House found himself limping to the piano, setting his glass and bottle on top of it before sliding into the seat. He looked around his apartment. No sign of Amber. Another swallow of his brandy. Amber still wasn't there. _She's not going to be there ever again_. He then turned his attention to the sheet music--a crinkled yellowed page on top of a jumbled mess of other pages. The song he had given to Cuddy. He pictured her sitting at his piano, staring at her song, sad that he wasn't there to play it for her.

He played the song, not once trying to be quiet about it. Then he played it again. After the fourth time through or so Cuddy joined him at the piano. The song was played at least ten more times before she was able to convince to come back to bed.


	8. Chapter 8

The last thing Cuddy remembered before drifting back to sleep was House spooning up behind her, taking her hand in his and rubbing his thumb along her palm. Very soothing; it was one reason she was able to get back to sleep so quickly--House doing all those little things he does when they are alone that say the things he can't put into words. Rubbing her palm. Planting soft kisses on the back of her neck.

It was after nine in the morning. She was usually up hours before this, having already eaten breakfast and able to cross a few things off her to-do list. But today was the perfect day to be lazy. No work, which meant no mountain of endless files, no stupefying meetings, no demanding patients. No errands to run, either; she and Wilson had taken care of all that in the days before House came home. She wasn't hungry and House was still in bed with her. There was no reason for her to get up.

He was sleeping on his left side, facing her, his breath catching in the back of the his throat every now and then. It had been around three in the morning when she managed to drag him back to bed. Did he fall asleep with her? Or did he get up again to eat another piece of cake and putter around the living room for another hour or two before deciding to call it a night?

Cuddy reached over and began tracing her fingers along the inside of his left arm, feeling the smooth, warm skin not at all like the rough, chapped skin of his hands. From his elbow to his wrist and back again. She hoped he would find this comforting if he were awake, the way she found his similar gesture comforting a few hours before. His arm twitched and her hand paused just below his wrist. House slept on, and Cuddy picked up where she had left off, slowly trailing her fingers up and down his exposed skin.

In another day or two House should be back down to earth and ready to start thinking about leaving his time spent in the asylum behind and getting back to work. You need to go back to work, she thought. You need to go back to your patients, House. You're comfortable with the familiar, and the hospital and solving your mysteries is what you're comfortable with. You need your routine and you need to keep yourself busy. The sooner the better or else I may have to move into your old room at Mayfield for a while.

His hefty collection of soap opera DVDs were in easy; she figured House had planned to spend the day sprawled in front of the television. As much as she wished he would accompany to her a museum or art gallery or go shopping with her for once in his life, she did understand his want and need to stay close to home for now. Comfortable with the familiar. Going out right now, being forced to mingle among the human population he couldn't stand to be around to begin with would just overload his already taxed nervous system and cause him to short circuit or blow a fuse at an inopportune time. No need to end up right back where he started. Much better to be safe than sorry when it came to House and the unsuspecting public. Besides, she wouldn't mind spending the day in front of the television as long as House was there to keep her company.

Her fingertips had traced there way back up to soft skin of his wrist when House murmured, "That's nice."

His bright blue eyes were still hidden behind closed lids. Unsure if he was talking in his sleep or awake, Cuddy said softly, "Is it?" If he was awake, he'd let her know if he wanted her to go on with what she was doing. If he was asleep then she what she was doing wasn't enough to wake him.

"I would have made you stop if it wasn't."

Mystery solved.

"Then I won't stop." She continued to trace the now familiar path.

"Please don't." His eyes opened and his gaze locked on to hers. "This is much better than a screeching alarm clock. Something that doesn't jerk me awake and piss me off every morning."

Cuddy reminded him, "You're almost always up before I am, so I'm afraid I can't be your new alarm clock."

"Worth a shot." House chuckled dryly, then looked down at his left arm. "You having fun there?"

"Tons of fun. It's nice to sleep in your bed and actually have you in it with me."

"Was the bed too big without me?"

"Very big. And very lonely."

"Not anymore," he said, and grinned when she began to trace circles in his palm. "Looking forward to doing absolutely nothing today?"

Cuddy asked, "What's your definition of doing nothing, Dr. House?"

"You're in no hurry to get up," he noted. "Along with making my apartment inhabitable again, you also spent the last few days busting your nicely shaped ass to make sure the hospital can run without you for a day or two. Other than massaging my arm, there aren't any big plans marked on the calendar, for you or for me."

As usual, his power of observation was uncanny. Sometimes, like now, Cuddy found it to be almost creepy.

"You wouldn't have it any other way," she said. "If I wasn't staying home with you today, you would beg and whine and bitch until I did. Then you wouldn't say you wanted me with you because you missed me as much as I missed you, you would say you begged and begged just to see if I would give in. So I thought I'd save us both a little trouble today."

House grinned again, evidently liking what she had just told him. As her fingers began to trace their way his arm again he took hold of it, not letting her finish the journey up to his wrist. He turned her arm until the soft white skin on the inside of her arm was facing up, then began tracing his fingers along the silky smoothness, mirroring the gesture he had woken up to that morning.

"You did good, Cuddy."

"Thank you." She wasn't sure exactly what he praising her for, but a compliment was a compliment and House didn't exactly hand them out to everyone who happened to be lucky enough to cross his path. She had done something to please him and that was good enough for now.

"You're welcome. Ready to start your day off?"

"I'm perfectly comfortable right here," she said, stretching out her hand until her fingers brushed his lower lip.

"Good," House said. "So am I."

"So what do we do now?"

House laughed softly. "I think we just keep on doing what we were doing. It's as good a place to start as any."


	9. Chapter 9

Things were quiet for a while, evidently too quiet for House. Cuddy soon found herself spending the next hour or so with her head pillowed on House's chest, listening to his heart beat and listening to him ramble away about the state of the world, stream-of-consciousness style. Here and there she interjected a question about whatever happened to be on his mind at the moment: the economy, politicians, stupid people in general, more stupid people and stupid politicians, a brief rant about his stay at Mayfield before moving on to what they would do to keep themselves occupied that day. When Cuddy suggested his soaps she swore she heard the smile spread across his face before he said, "I like the way you think."

There was a gentle nudge on her shoulder, followed by, "You're gonna have to move there, Cuddy. As nice and warm as you are, I'm getting hungry and I need to take a shower."

"I don't want to," she groaned in mock protest, then flopped back onto her pillow.

"Sadly, all good things must come to an end," House remarked as he sat up and stretched, his back popping in two places.

"I know…and it sucks."

"A woman after my own heart. You mind if I shower first?"

"It's your apartment."

"That's it? No arguing with me?" He sounded disappointed. "No protests? No ladies first and all that feminist jazz, even if it is my apartment?"

"I can argue with you until next week and drag Gloria Steinem into it if you want, but I'm getting hungry too, and you'll still take a shower first out of spite. Just save me some hot water."

House stood up and reached for his cane. "And if I don't?"

"Then you can make your own breakfast."

"Oh _snap_," he retorted. "Cruel and unusual punishment. Can't have that. What if I'm a good boy and leave you plenty of hot water. What do I get out of it?"

"All the waffles you can eat."

"Blueberry?"

"Is there any other kind you'll eat?"

"Nope. You'll have all the hot water you can handle," he said, limping out of the room.

Cuddy smiled and glanced at the clock. Breakfast would actually be lunch by the time they got around to eating. His pill bottle was in its usual place next to it. Just like any other prescription bottle he'd ever had. So why were her eyes drawn away from the clock and on to the little generic-looking prescription bottle?

She hadn't heard the distinctive rattle of the pills tapping against the plastic all morning.

_Because he didn't take a pill before leaving the room._

She grabbed the bottle and began to read the tiny print.

"I detoxed at Mayfield."

Cuddy turned to see House leaning in the doorway.

"I spent too many days and nights strapped to the bed while covered in my own puke," he went on. "All because of some little white pills that I thought I needed. It's not something I want to repeat."

"It's not something I want to see you repeat, either. It must have been hell."

"It was."

Holding up the bottle, Cuddy asked, "Is this for real?"

House nodded. "It's real. No narcotics in that bottle. Just some prescription strength acetaminophen. I haven't seen Amber or Kutner since I stopped the Vicodin and would like to keep it that way. When you saw me taking the pills yesterday, you thought it was Vicodin."

"I did," she admitted, suddenly feeling ashamed. "I'm sorry."

House waved his hand in a gesture that told her that her apology wasn't necessary. "Why did you think it was Vicodin?" he asked. "You knew why I checked into Mayfield."

"I guess…I guess it's because you've taken the Vicodin for so long…This isn't the first time you've detoxed. You've gone back to Vicodin before." It felt like she was confessing to playing a major role in a horrible crime. She could feel the blush of embarrassment creeping up her neck and coloring her cheeks. Searching his face for any sign of anger or hostility, she found none. If he was mad at her it wasn't showing in his features. All she could see was a poker face. "I saw you shake those pills into your mouth like you had done a thousand times before. You took those pills without a second thought just like any other time and I thought--"

"I guess I can't blame you for thinking that, given my less-than-stellar history with pills," House said with a humorless laugh. "While playing basketball last week, Alvie was knocked into me and his knee met my leg in a rather unpleasant way. He nailed me right where the muscle is missing. Hurt like a bitch for days, hence the prescription."

"How is your leg?"

"It's fine. It was cramping yesterday since I think I slept on it wrong. That's why I took the pills."

"I'm glad to see it's not Vicodin." she said, putting the bottle back on the night stand.

"So am I. And you're right about a few things."

"Right about what?"

"I've detoxed before, and I've gone right back on the Vicodin before. But there was something different this time. Make that two different things."

Cuddy blinked. "What was different?"

House rested his head against the doorframe, a calm, detached look floating behind his eyes. "This time I wanted the help that was offered to me, and this time I have damn good reason to change my ways. This isn't just about seeing two dead people. Not at all. This is about you and me and Wilson and whether or not I keep pushing the people I care about until they break. I can't keep pushing you and Wilson to your limits. I can't keep crawling inside a Vicodin bottle to hide from the rest of world every time I get hurt. Things have to change. I'm fifty years old now and I don't want to look back at this moment and kick myself for not taking the opportunity to finally make myself…better."

Change didn't come easy to House, and this time would be no different. From living in the same apartment for nearly twenty years to wearing the same clothes over and over again until they became a bundle of loose threads, to insisting his addiction was under control, House was a man very set in his ways. When push came to shove, pushing House was like pushing Mt. Everest. Both would get you absolutely nowhere and fast. So to have House confiding that he both wanted and needed to slay his demons…something was going to give and Cuddy had no idea what it was. She doubted House did either.

Cuddy sat up. "House…I know it took it lot of guts to admit that. I just want to say that I am so proud of you."

"Thank you," he said quietly, his voice almost a whisper.

"You're welcome," she said, then realized he had been gone for only ten seconds before catching her looking at his prescription bottle. "Did you forget something? Why aren't you taking your shower?"

He grinned at her and replied, "I came up with a solution to the hot water problem."

"Do I even want to know what it is?"

"Yes, and I think you'll like it."

"So tell me."

"Come and join me," he said, holding out his hand. "We can use up all the hot water together, and I'll make it worth your while."


	10. Chapter 10

The bathroom would have steamed up even if they had left the water off.

His soapy, slippery hands and the pounding hot water all over her flushed skin kept her on the edge of bliss. "Squeaky clean and absolutely filthy at the same time," House joked, and her laughter echoed off the tiles. All the layers of steam hanging in the air didn't appear to slow down House or put him in a daze; he seemed very aware of where to touch and how to touch her. There were extra kisses on her neck as he washed her back with cocoa butter bodywash. His hands lingered as he passed the wash cloth over her belly, her breasts, her thighs. There were very few moments when his skin wasn't in contact with hers.

There was no way to avoid looking at his scar. When he asked if it bothered her, she replied with a very simple and gentle "No." Because it was the truth. She knew he doesn't want to hear some long, rambling explanation about _why_. His scars and his flaws and his faults were nothing but beautiful to her, and she told him so with that one simple word, and that meant more to him than some ridiculous long-winded speech he wouldn't listen to anyway. He rewarded her honesty with a deep, raw, passionate kiss, pulling her to him until their limbs were entwined and clinging like vines, and her breath was lost in him and she had break away with a gasp as she felt her mind go fuzzy and her chest was burning and her heart was pounding in time with his. She looked up to see his eyes stormy with lust and…something else making its way from behind the clouds. It was awareness. The awareness that comes from being stripped of all defenses, of letting himself be exposed and vulnerable, of being fully aware of the fact that _he_ was surrendering to _her, _and the awareness that came from knowing that she would appreciate it for everything it was.

* * *

On soap operas the subplots had subplots and Cuddy couldn't keep track of all of them. Even after House explained who was sleeping with who, which characters had amnesia, who was being stabbed in the back and all the evil twins, she was left feeling like she had just tried to translate fifty pages of quantum physics from Chinese to German. In the end she had to admit defeat and sank back into his arms with a scowl.

"I run one of the most prestigious hospitals in the country. But right now I can't follow the plot of one silly soap," she grumbled.

Reaching for the bag of Doritos, House asked her, "Did you learn how to run the hospital in one afternoon?"

"Not hardly," she said, snatching a few wayward Doritos from his hand.

"Exactly. So don't expect to catch up on some soaps you don't even watch in a few hours." House pointed to the television as a new character appeared onscreen. "See, now here's Stephanie. She and her other personalities are--"

"_Other_ personalities? As in multiple personalities? Are you kidding me?"

"Afraid not."

"Good God," Cuddy said with a laugh. "No wonder soaps are never taken seriously. They throw in every cliché they can think of and see what floats to the surface. Has someone been kidnapped and replaced with a look-a-like?"

"That happened last year," House answered before draining the last of his soda.

"Has someone on here been reunited with a long lost sibling?"

"Plenty of times."

"A long lost member of a royal family?"

"Hmmm…I believe that has happened, but not on this show," he said. He looked at his empty soda bottle and frowned.

Chuckling at the absurdity it all, she asked, "How about some dowdy-looking character who turns out to be a major criminal mastermind?"

"Absolutely. More than once…and they would have gotten away with it, if it hadn't been for those meddling kids and their dog." He reached for Cuddy's still half-full Pepsi, only to have his hand batted away. "Hey, I'm thirsty here!"

She snatched the bottle and held it out of his reach. "So am I. There are plenty more in the kitchen."

"But yours is right there."

"And yours is in the kitchen."

"But it's too far awaaaay!" House let the whine flow freely.

"It's never too far when you follow me in there to watch me cook for you."

"Are you going to cook for me?"

"I'll make you a sandwich if you want, but I'm not cooking again until Wilson gets here for dinner. Do you want a sandwich?"

"Yes, please," he said, giving her his best puppy dog eyes.

Cuddy stood up. "What kind of sandwich?"

"Surprise me. And don't forget to bring a nice cold Pepsi on your way back," he called after her as she padded to the kitchen, muttering "Yeah, yeah, yeah" under her breath.

* * *

"You okay, House?"

"Hmm?" He turned to her and blinked.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes. Why?"

"I've been watching you for ten minutes," she told him, sounding concerned as she gestured towards the television. "You've been staring at your feet instead of watching your show. Is something wrong?"

He shook his head and replied, "Nothing's wrong. I'm just…thinking."

"About what?" Cuddy straightened up and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Decisions."

"What decisions?"

"Decisions I'm going to have to make soon," House explained, as he reached up and covered her hand with his. "I don't want to fall right back into my old habits. I need to stay on the right path… and I need to decide the best way to go about doing just that."

'Old habits' translated into Vicodin, and that's what kicked off the whole mess. Hearing him say that he didn't want to his drug habit to run his life again was an immense relief.

She asked, "Have you made any decisions yet?"

"Not yet," he replied. "But I will let you know since they're going to involve you one way or another."


	11. Chapter 11

"Didn't your mother teach you any table manners?" Wilson asked as he watched his friend shovel a huge forkful of spaghetti into his mouth.

House managed to breathe out a muffled "Yes and no" between bites.

"Which one is it, yes or no?"

"_Merf_," House answered, which Wilson successfully translated as "both".

Wilson turned to Cuddy. "You let him eat like this?"

The Dean of Medicine gaped at her guest. "You're blaming me now?" she declared with mock horror.

"I was hoping he would become more of a civilized human being while being around you instead of a caveman with a college education."

"He eats like this when he wants to. Whether I let him or not is beside the point. If I have to live with it, so do you." Cuddy explained as she kept a surreptitious eye on House, hoping he wouldn't choke to death on his dinner while trying to keep up with the conversation.

"Real table manners from your mother, huh?" Wilson smirked as he dabbed a bit of garlic bread into a puddle of sauce. "Could've fooled me."

When he could talk again, House told the oncologist, "My mother taught me table manners and my father enforced them. I lived the first seventeen years of my life with a man who would get his ass chewed out if his shoelaces were tied wrong, so he was a bit of a stickler for rules. As you can imagine, I'd get my head ripped off if I so much as dropped a fork. Fun times."

The stories of the abuse House suffered at the hands of his father came roaring back to Cuddy. She had listened intently as he told her all about sleeping on the back porch as punishment, of the summer his father didn't speak a word to him, of the verbal and sometimes physical abuse. Did House's shrink at Mayfield, Dr. Nolan, ever hear the stories? she wondered. Could House bring himself to tell someone else about them, or where they shoved to the back of the closet until someone accidentally stumbled on them again, like now? Concerned that the inadvertent shift in the conversation would cause their nice evening to fall apart, she reached over and brushed her hand over his, praying that he would get the hint and change the subject.

"Rules were made to be broken," House continued. "Cliché but true. I believe I have every right to eat my dinner with all the finesse of a brain-damaged Neanderthal." After a quick glance at Cuddy, he added, "But since I don't want to be up with heartburn all night, it might be in my best interest to slow down a bit."

Cuddy released the breath she hadn't realized she had been holding. From the corner of her eye she could see that smug grin tugging at this mouth. Her subtle hint had been unnecessary; he was never going to blow up over the memories of his father. No need to worry about his self-control at the dinner table. That certainly deserves a reward later on, she thought and hoped she wasn't blushing too much.

Twirling some spaghetti around his fork, Wilson said, "Please do, House. There's no hurry. Nobody here is going to take your food away from you."

"Nobody who wants to keep both of their hands, anyway," House said, snatching another piece of garlic bread, as if he was daring one of them to say something about it.

Nobody did.

* * *

"Do you want to kiss me?" Cuddy asked him just as he rested his head against the pillow and pulled the covers up to his chest.

The question had come out of nowhere and caught him off guard. House had been expecting Cuddy to be tired and a bit grumbly when he finally decided to come to bed, then snuggle up to him as she fell asleep. Apparently plans had changed and she hadn't bothered to tell him. Indirectly asking for a kiss…well, it wasn't like she was demanding he do all the dishes or fold the laundry at two in the morning. Not that he could ever say he didn't want to kiss her. A kiss, such a simple demand, something he was more than happy to oblige.

"I always want to kiss you," he replied before doing just that, losing himself in her scent and her taste and soft dark curls of her hair. House can feel her arching up into his embrace, forcing him into an even deeper, more fierce kiss.

Memories flickered in the back of his mind--memories of the endless nights spent in his cold, uncomfortable bed at Mayfield, with only his yearning for her and Alvie's snoring to keep him company. Now with Cuddy here in his arms, in his bed, something reawakens within him, one hand tangled in her hair, the other slipping under her shirt. In the darkness of the bedroom his sense of touch has taken over and he loved the feeling of softness and silkiness in his hands; her exposed skin, her mouth crushing against his…it was something he could never get enough of. He felt more than heard her sighs and hums of approval as he kissed his way down to her neck.

Her hands map every angle and plane of his back again and again. She doesn't need any lights on to see him, she knows him by heart. She knows the scar on his leg, the scar on his nose, the callous on his right hand. She knows all the right places to touch him, to feel him.

"_House_…_please_," she whispers, her voice breaking with lust.

Hearing his name was enough to crack the last of his resolve, and he willingly shattered, not caring if all the pieces will ever be found.

"You won't ever leave me again," Cuddy murmured.

"I won't," he breathed.

"Promise me."

"I promise, Cuddy. I promise."


	12. Chapter 12

He floated away on a cloud of sleep, no pain in his leg, no choking leash of addiction. He was safe there. He was welcomed there. It was a place where the painful childhood memories of rejection and abuse didn't exist. Everyone accepted him for who he was. Cuddy had been able to see behind the mask, the charade; she had been able to see the human being beneath the broken man. She had waited for him. Both Cuddy and Wilson waited for him. Nobody else would.

Nobody else would put up with him. He was slowly learning to be thankful that there was someone there when he needed them.

House suddenly felt breathless, he couldn't get enough air. The air in the room felt thick, as if he could grab handfuls of it and squeeze it between his fingers like putty. "Cuddy…?" His voice sounded far away, like he was trying he was talking on a phone with a bad connection.

Sometime during the night he had somehow wrapped himself under the comforter, his face all but buried in it. Irritated, he swatted at it until he felt the cool air hit his face and he breathed in all the air he could until his lungs felt ready to burst.

He opened his eyes, half-expecting Amber to be standing at the foot of the bed, ready to keep him awake for the rest of the night and tomorrow night and the night after that.

No Amber in sight.

_Amber is gone. She's not coming back. Get a grip, for Pete's sake…_

_She came back once…_

_That was because of the Vicodin. I don't take Vicodin anymore. So fuck you and the horse you rode in on._

But Cuddy was there. And she was very real.

His hand ran up and down the up the smoothness of her back, like silk running through his fingers. She slept on as his sense of touch continued to explore her skin.

_You won't ever leave me again._

His heart ached as her words take their place in line at the front of his memory. She loved him, wanted him, needed him. She was naked and in his bed. Just a few hours earlier she had made him promise to never leave her alone again. As far as keeping that promise and going back to Mayfield, well, House was going to make good on Nolan's request to never, ever see him again. At least until my next appointment, House thought and snorted in the quiet of his bedroom.

Seeing only the inside of Nolan's office at Mayfield was a certainty. Seeing the inside of his own office at Princeton Plainsboro was not.

He was doing well. His leg pain was manageable; not feeling like there were rusty spikes being driven into his thigh was pure joy. His craving for Vicodin was virtually non-existent. The little white pills hadn't crossed his lips for…how long had it been now? Four or five months? That sounds about right, House thought as he felt his way down to the small of Cuddy's back. Looking at her pale, shapeless form through the dark, he remembered how she had mistaken his other pills for Vicodin. In all fairness, it was an easy enough mistake to make; his addiction being something of a trademark. And she had been more than right about how he slipped right back into his old habits before. It was time for a change. Time to shed his old habits and old image like a snake shedding his skin. He needed a fresh start, and a fresh start meant someplace where there was no Vicodin within lunging distance.

He wasn't going to see the inside of his office again. He couldn't go back to Princeton Plainsboro. He had come to far just to turn around fall face-first into another bottle of Vicodin.

Cuddy turned over and mumbled, "It's cold in here."

"That's what you get for sleeping naked," House replied as she made herself comfortable by snuggling up next to him. "You should check the weather before you do these things."

"I'm naked because of _you_. The least you can do you is keep me warm."

He pulled the comforter up to her shoulders and inched a bit closer until their shared warmth was fell on them like an extra blanket. "All better?"

"Much better. Why am I not surprised that you're awake?" Her words come out slowly and were heavy with drowsiness. She'd be out again in less than five minutes.

For a fleeting second House thought of telling her all about his decision but all it took was another fleeting second to decide that laying out his plans for a future without Princenton Plainsboro right then and there was a very bad idea. No need to have her all worried and nervous at this ridiculous o'clock in the morning. She'd take it better with a decent night's sleep, a large breakfast, then House could feel less guilty laying out all reasons why he would be better off working somewhere else.

"I've got a lot on my mind," he answered, throwing her a little sliver of truth before tomorrow's big reveal.

Cuddy muttered, "Can't that busy mind of yours take a break for a few hours?"

"It will."

"When?"

"Soon."

"I hope so. You need to catch up on your sleep. We need you back at the hospital as soon as possible."

House didn't reply as he listened to her slow and even breathes, making sure the blankets stayed in place and kept her warm.


	13. Chapter 13

"Are you sure about this?" Cuddy asked.

House felt a pang of guilt when he saw the crestfallen expression that overtook the smile she tossed his way less than a minute earlier. Looking at the pile of breakfast dishes and the crumbs and smears of syrup that clung to them, he told her, "As sure as I'll ever be. It's for the best."

"No, it isn't." She scowled into her coffee cup.

"No, it isn't," House agreed, "but it's what I have to do."

"You don't!" Cuddy exclaimed, reaching across the table to take his hand. "Just tell me what you need, House, and I'll make sure you get it."

"I need you to support me right now, Cuddy. That's what I need." His eyes were dark and somber. "Don't think for a second that this was an easy decision to make."

"I know it wasn't…but you can't think I'm not going to let you go." A glimmer of hope passed through her when she saw a try to hide a grin at her remark. "There must be some kind of…compromise…or agreement we can come up with--"

"There isn't." House interrupted. The grin had vanished. "No matter what agreement we come up, no matter what safeguards you put up, I'll find a way around them."

"How do you know--"

"Because I've done it before!" Another pang of guilt tore through him when he saw her flinch. Lowering his voice, he went on. "I've done it before and I can't take the risk of doing it again and getting caught. Remember what happened last time?"

The whole nightmare of dealing with that bastard Tritter came flooding back. Three years had gone by but Cuddy could still see it all like it had happened yesterday: learning of House's arrest, Tritter all but taking over the hospital during his investigation, the looming prison sentence, the lies.

"How could anyone forget that?" Cuddy asked with a short, flat laugh.

"I still have nightmares," House joked weakly.

"So do I. But if I had to do it all over to keep you out of jail, I would."

House's expression remained blank, as if he had been expecting her to say that. "You're missing the point. I don't want you to lie for me. You shouldn't have to lie for a drug addict. I don't want you to go through that again. Do I believe you when you say you'd lie for me? Yes, I do. But that doesn't mean either of us will get away with it again. After we lose our licenses for good and get sent to prison, maybe they'll be nice enough to let us both watch as Tritter swallows the key."

Cuddy thought it over for a few minutes, the silence in the kitchen almost palpable, before she said, "You have a point."

House calmly answered, "I like to think so" before taking a sip of his now cold coffee.

With a small sigh, Cuddy let go of his hand and began to gather up the breakfast dishes. His mind was made up. Trying to get House to change his mind was like going outside during a tornado and politely asking it to turn around. Both would still just run right over you. Sure, she didn't want him to leave Princeton Plainsboro, but would sitting around and arguing with him about all day be worth it? Or would respecting his decision and wishing him luck on his new endeavors be a more worthwhile?

"I'll miss you," she said quietly.

"I know," House replied without any kind of gloating satisfaction. He was simply stating a fact. "I'll miss seeing you around."

"It's not going to be the same without you."

"I'm sure a few people are going to breathe a huge sigh of relief. I'm not exactly the most popular guy around, you know. At least now you can put all that money you set aside for my legal fees to good use, like buying Coma Guy a new set of pajamas or something."

His wicked sense of humor survived made it through Mayfield unscathed, she thought. "I'll look into that. But aren't you forgetting something, House?"

House looked up. "What?"

Stacking the dishes in the sink, Cuddy said, "It's going to be at least a month until you get your license back. Have you thought about what you're going to do in the meantime?"

House paused, and Cuddy knew that he had been so busy mulling over his decision to leave he forgot to think about how he was going to keep himself busy in the meantime. He would be climbing the walls within two days.

"I'll think of something," he said, trying and failing to sound dismissive about it.

"Before or after the boredom starts to eat you alive?"

"I'll manage."

"Manage to destroy all the furniture in your apartment or drive yourself back to Mayfield because you're afraid you might actually lose your mind this time?"

House watched as she filled the coffee pot with water, then said, "I can catch up on my reading and my soaps."

"That'll take three whole days. Then what?"

Sloshing his cold coffee around the cup, he told her, "Then we better hurry up and find me a hobby. I'm thinking needlepoint, or maybe knitting. How about you?"


	14. Chapter 14

"Cooking class?" House raised an eyebrow at Wilson. "Do I look like Wolfgang Puck to you?"

Cuddy piped in with, "You're more like Emeril Lagasse without the 'Bam!'"

"I have more bam for the buck than a hundred Emerils," House declared. "What other classes do you take? Sewing? Scrapbooking? Fascinating Womanhood?"

"It'll be fun," Wilson offered, ignoring his friend's sarcasm. "How do you think I learned to cook? I took classes. Besides, you might learn a recipe or two and be able to put that to good use."

They were relaxing in the living room, House and Cuddy curled up on the sofa while Wilson lounged in the easy chair. The oncologist refilled his wine glass, then Cuddy's. House nursed a glass of brandy that still sat half-full on the table.

He was in a good mood at the moment, but both Wilson and Cuddy knew that if they didn't find something to keep him occupied for the next month, they'd all be screaming at each other and hurling small appliances across the room by the end of the week. Boredom was House's worst enemy, an enemy that didn't need to cross the gate into his mind and set up shop there.

House waved his hand in the general direction of the kitchen and said, "Does it look like I ever put any kind of cooking skills to use in there? That's what she's here for."

"Hey!" Cuddy elbowed her lover in the ribs, maybe a little harder than necessary. "I'm sitting right here, you know."

"I know now," House grumbled, making an over-dramatic show of rubbing the spot she had elbowed, pretending to be hurt.

She said, "You sure as hell don't seem to mind shoveling the food I make down that bottomless gullet of yours."

"Never said I didn't," House smirked. "You do the cooking, I do the shoveling. Works out pretty good for both of us."

"Does it? Then how come you never help with the dishes?"

"You never ask."

"You're doing the dishes tonight, Mister," she declared.

"That's _Doctor_, thank you very much," House said. "And what if I don't?"

"Then make yourself comfy on this here sofa, because you'll be sleeping on it."

His brow furrowed in confusion, he said, "You'd kick me out of my own bed?"

"Whether you sleep on the sofa or whether I do doesn't matter. The point is that either way you'll be sleeping alone," she explained, her eyes narrowed.

After pretending to think it over for a few moments, House said, "Consider them done."

Wilson decided it was time to get the subject of their conversation back on track before Cuddy had House scrubbing the bathtub and mending her clothes. "You said you wanted a hobby and I'm offering you a hobby," he reminded his friend, setting his glass of wine on the table. "You can be out of your apartment a couple nights a week, learn a new skill that can be put to good use in your everyday life, and keep your overactive mind occupied for a while."

Still, House seemed reluctant. "I'm not sure if cooking is my thing…"

"You'll never know until you find out."

"But I don't cook. At all. I reheat your leftovers. I nuke frozen dinners. I make peanut butter sandwiches and order take-out food from people who know exactly what I want the second I call them because I call them so often. They're on a first-name basis with me."

"Exactly!" Wilson exclaimed, reaching for his glass of wine. "Don't you get sick of peanut butter sandwiches and take-out food all the time? It's only been a few days since you left Mayfield and their so-called food. And as much as you've enjoyed Cuddy and I cooking for you the past couple of days, we can't cook for you every day. Doesn't some spaghetti you made yourself sound more appetizing than some slop from a can or some peanut butter slapped on two pieces of stale bread?"

"I guess…"

"So what's stopping you?"

"Nothing, I suppose. But with my luck I'll end up burning the damn place down."

Wilson took a gulp of his drink before he said, "So we find out if the cooking school has insurance. Come to one class with me. Just one. If you don't like, we'll find something else."

House sighed, not in frustration but with the resignation that he knew he had to do something with himself until he got his license back. "All right. When is this class of yours?"

"Friday. Six o'clock." Wilson smiled, pleased that his friend had agreed to come along. Getting House out and about the best thing he could do for his friend. House needed to do something new, get his hands dirty, learn a new skill and perhaps one or two new things about himself. Maybe he could keep House from going ballistic from boredom after all.

"You sure they won't mind me crashing the place?"

"Not at all. Just stick with me, wear the apron, don't throw food at your neighbor and it will all be good. I'll pick you up here at five-thirty."

House muttered "Fine with me" before reaching for his brandy and finishing it off in two gulps.

"House," Cuddy spoke up, "remember that it's not a competition. It's a class. That's all. Just keep that in mind and I'm sure you'll enjoy yourself."

"I'll keep that in mind," the diagnostician echoed.

"Please do. Maybe you could cook dinner for me sometime."

"Really?" House grinned at her and asked, "What would you like? Would it get me out of doing the dishes?"


	15. Chapter 15

He told her that if he was up he'd have breakfast with her. If not then just let him sleep. House fell into a dreamless slumber. Only later would he realize that he didn't fall asleep worrying about whether Amber and Kutner would come back to haunt him again. When the alarm screeched through the cool air the next morning, House grumbled at her to turn the fucking thing off already. He had fallen back asleep by the time she shuffled out of the bedroom, the ghosts of Amber and Kutner still not bothering him.

Cuddy munched on an English muffin and looked over at the empty chair House usually occupied during meal times, and how she had stared at its emptiness many mornings during his stay at Mayfield. She wanted to hear his usual endless chattering about the state of the world, pausing only shovel in another mouthful of pancakes or waffles. But she knew better than to drag him out here when he didn't want to be and the only reason for him to be was her own selfish desire for some company. The right to sleep in if he wanted was something House had certainly earned over the last few months; though that didn't stop her from wanting to climb right back into bed with him, shake him out of his sleep, tear away his clothes and remind him that she was still his boss even he didn't work for her anymore. Maybe later, she thought and grinned smugly in the empty kitchen, then decided there was going to be no _maybe_ about it.

She wasn't worried about House going crazy from boredom, at least not today. He had told that he would spend the afternoon catching up on the rest of his soaps before Wilson picked him up. Hopefully this cooking class would be just what he needed, something he could look forward to while waiting to get his license and life back. House needed to be out of his apartment and out of his own head for a while. It was something he had needed for a long time. Too long, Cuddy thought as she finished off the last of her muffin and coffee.

She paused at the bedroom door before going to take her shower. House was right where she had left him, still very much asleep and looking very…_innocent_. Cuddy couldn't help but smile since that word wasn't usually associated with the notoriously prickly Gregory House. But an open mind and a lot of patience had let Cuddy see that House was just as human as everyone else and had the very same wants and needs and desires.

Seeing him curled up in bed, hugging a pillow, only reinvigorated her desire crawl back under the covers with him, to feel his skin against hers. She had to pry herself away from the door and her morning shower was a very cold one.

* * *

"How's it going over there?" Wilson asked.

"Good," House's answer was short and to the point, like most of his answers had been throughout the evening.

From the corner of his eye Wilson watched his friend toss a meatball from hand to hand. For a moment Wilson was afraid that House would suddenly decide he wanted to pitching in the World Series and nail some unsuspecting student between the eyes with a glob of meat, but relaxed when House tossed it into the frying pan with the other seven meatballs he had taken his time making.

House hadn't said much over the last hour except to ask where things were and if any dessert was going to be made that evening. A huge frown was evident when he was told there would be no cake baking that night. Realizing that his friend's disappointed in the lack of cake was real, Wilson promised that they'd stop somewhere on the way home and pick up a treat. House was appeased for the time being. If he hadn't been enjoying the class, he would have stormed out a long time ago, leaving a trail of insults and profanities in his wake. Wilson looked over to see House snatch an onion out of a huge metal bowl and start chopping away.

"I'll get started on the peppers," Wilson said, reaching for a knife.

"Don't bother, I can handle it. Just keep an eye on your balls over there," House said without looking up. On close inspection, Wilson could see a hint of a smirk on the older man's scruffy face.

"Admit it, House, you're having fun."

"I never said I wasn't."

"You don't have to. You haven't bitched about anything or anybody here all night."

"The night is still young."

"There's only forty minutes or so left."

"So?"

"Are you going to bitch about something before then?"

"Maybe. Your balls are burning."

Wilson blinked, not sure if he heard right. "What?"

"The meatballs." House nodded at the frying pan. "They're burning."

Craning his neck to see his friend was right, Wilson muttered, "_Shit_!", as he grabbed the knobs to turn the heat down and flipped the meatballs over, leaving him looking at overcooked but not inedible meatballs sizzling and popping on the stove. He could hear soft chuckling mixing with the sound of chopping.

"Thanks for saving my balls, House."

Adding a handful of onions to the pan, House retorted with, "And I saved the meal too."


	16. Chapter 16

"Stop bringing these desserts here!" Cuddy managed to say through a mouthful of double chocolate chunk brownies. "I can't leave them alone."

"It was either the brownies or listen to House whine all night," Wilson said, a milk moustache clinging to his upper lip. "I think you'll agree that a few brownies is the lesser of two evils."

After taking a sip of milk, Cuddy said, "I'm honestly not sure about that one. These brownies are fabulous, but listening to House doesn't have any fat or calories."

"Worried about your girlish figure?" House spoke up.

An old cookbook Cuddy had found in her cupboard was open in his lap and he had been looking through it with something that looked remarkably like genuine enthusiasm. Cuddy herself hadn't opened the thing in years and was hoping maybe House could get some use out of it.

"I work hard to keep this girlish figure girlish, and your love of junk food doesn't help."

"Don't worry," House said, shooting a wicked grin in her direction. "We can work off those extra calories when Wilson leaves."

The snort Wilson failed to stifle filled the kitchen. Cuddy glared at him but said nothing as she popped the last bite of her brownie into her mouth. House turned his attention back to the cookbook, leafing through the pages, stopping occasionally to peruse a recipe that caught his interest.

"Making big plans for a future dinner, House?" she asked. Cuddy peaked over his shoulder, seeing a recipe for stuffed peppers. House had raved about Wilson's stuffed peppers before. She wondered if House would attempt to outdo his friend. "Going to conjure up a grand feast for us soon?"

He grinned and answered, "Can't have a grand feast without the ingredients. Give me a day or two and I'll see what I can do and what I need to do it."

Wilson said, "Sounds like he's going to be dragging one or both of us to the grocery store and making one or both of us pay for it."

Cuddy agreed with him, but decided now wasn't the right time to voice that out loud. "See anything in there you can make with what I have?"

"Like what?"

"I don't know…something quick and easy and simple. Nothing fancy."

"If you don't mind something bland like biscuits--"

"I'd love some biscuits!" Cuddy announced.

"Biscuits?" House furrowed his brow. "If we're going to go for bland lets go all out and have some white rice, bread and water."

"You've never had homemade biscuits?" Wilson asked as if he couldn't fathom such a thing.

House answered with a short and simple "No."

"We'll have to change that," Cuddy said, reaching over him to run a manicured fingernail down the list of ingredients. Everything required was in her kitchen. "Simple is as simple does. Guess what you're making tomorrow?"

* * *

Maybe it was the all sugar from the brownies, or maybe it was the excitement of trying something new and liking it. Whatever it was that made House almost fiercely possessive, taking her in his arms and covering her with kisses before she could even lay back down on the pillow, she hoped he would have some more of it tomorrow.

"Down boy!" she panted as his busy hands found their up her nightshirt. "At least let me get comfortable first!"

"Can't help myself," he mumbled against her throat. "You look good enough to eat."

I do? she thought, wondering what House so fascinating about a five-year-old nightshirt and her freshly scrubbed face that smelled like Irish Spring soap and Oil of Olay.

"Are you mistaking me for one of your desserts, House?"

"You're better than any dessert," he said, one hand now leaving trails of fire down her thigh. "One of you is worth one hundred thousand brownies."

"So why did you bring the brownies home when you could have had me for dessert?"

"Never said I didn't want both," he answered, then grinned at her laughter. "Besides, Wilson wanted something too, and I didn't think offering you up for dessert would have been polite."

House always said the strangest things when he was in one of his weird moods. Cuddy just had just roll with it until his lust finally took over or she had to take it over for him.

"Thank you…I think," she mumbled.

House laughed softly. "It was a compliment. Please say you're taking it as one and are not going to storm out of here and sleep on the sofa."

"I'm not, House. You don't have to worry."

"That's good," he said, and sounded happy with her answer. "Those brownies came from the best gourmet bakery in town."

"I saw the box," she said, unable to suppress the shudder as his roaming hands skimmed the swell of her breasts.

"Made from the best ingredients and ridiculously expensive."

"I'm sure Wilson's wallet felt the pinch."

"And I got to hear all about it on the way home," House told her. "It's nice to share every now and again. Sometimes you have to splurge a little to make sure you get the good stuff. But deep down I'll always be a selfish bastard who likes to save the very best for himself."


	17. Chapter 17

It was the quiet moments House enjoyed the most, the moments he could savor her touch, her scent. The lonely nights at Mayfield seemed like a lifetime ago as he spooned against her, his body fitting against hers like puzzle pieces. Now he was back in Cuddy's too-small bed, drifting in and out of sleep, waiting for the alarm to cut through the morning. She'd be up and gone in a few hours, off to the hospital to make sure everything ran like a well-oiled machine. If the hospital is the machine, then I'm the monkey wrench thrown into it, House thought and grinned in the dark bedroom. But House had some plans of his own for tomorrow. He wanted to go to the bookstore and look at the cookbooks. Maybe another recipe for biscuits would grab him.

Biscuits. Cuddy wanted him to make plain old homemade biscuits. He found that hilarious and…well, he found it absolutely fucking adorable. One of the many things he found so engaging about her was that she wasn't a high-maintenance pain in the ass. She's rather stay home and make biscuits instead of demanding diamond rings and lobster dinners; in fact, she'd be less than impressed if he tried to buy her affections. She'd rather cuddle and pretend to tolerate his monster truck shows rather than have him take her on shopping sprees. She'd rather fall in love with a half-crazy, bitter, crippled, addicted jackass than someone who actually deserves her--

_Whoa, hold the phone!_

_She's naked in bed with you, isn't she? She could have any man in the world and she chose _you_._

_Too fucking right._

House smiled again, feeling elated and more than a bit smug. He pressed up against Cuddy--the woman who chose _him_--feeling his heart beat against her back as he drifted off.

His eyes opened to a dawn being held back by Fall. This time of year the sun didn't rise so much as claw its way up so it could give off some light for a few hours before being beaten back into the ground. Grumbling to himself he noted that there was nearly an hour before Cuddy had to get up. He certainly wasn't going back to sleep. Five hours was pretty good, and I've certainly had worse nights, he thought and snagged his clothes off the floor. He pulled on his shirt and sweats and shuffled out of the room.

He stopped in bathroom first, and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror as he lathered up his hands. A long, drawn face with tired and bloodshot blue eyes stared back him. House took note of the crow's feet, the frown lines, the perpetual beard that was now more silver than brown, the buzz cut he had acquired in Mayfield and wasn't in any hurry to get rid of. I look exactly like what I am, he thought, blinking at himself, a fifty-year-old man who has come too damn close to losing everything. Again.

After rinsing off his hands, he met his reflection in the eye again, and hoped Cuddy never lost sight of whatever she saw in him.

As soon as he stepped into the hallway his leg began to cramp. His prescription was on the night table. The cramp hurt, but he'd definitely experienced worse pain. It wasn't worth waking Cuddy up for. She kept a bottle of ibuprofen in the kitchen. The least he could was have some hot coffee waiting for her. House limped to the kitchen in search of his morning jolt of caffeine and legal over-the-counter pain relief.

After swallowing four pills House sat at the table, sipping his coffee and looking for any changes since he had been gone. There weren't any, none that he noticed anyway. It had been months since he had been in Cuddy's home and everything seemed to be exactly where it was the last time: her too-small bed, her gourmet coffee, everything in its proper place. Just like the hospital. Somehow a rumpled, out-of-order guy like him made himself fit into both places, whether he was welcome or not. House mused over that as he drank his coffee and listened for the alarm.

An hour later Cuddy stumbled into the kitchen. "_Coffeeeeee_!" she wheezed and made a beeline for the source of the dark, rich scent that filled the kitchen. She reached for the cup House had left on the counter for her, her favorite oversized forest green mug, and in three seconds it was nearly overflowing with a Kenyan blend. "You are wonderful," she said before all but diving headfirst into the mug as if her life depended on it.

"I know," House smirked.

Another gulp, then Cuddy set her mug on the table and made herself a bowl of cereal.

"What are your big plans for the day?" she asked, sliding into the chair.

"This and that. I'll keep myself busy. You don't have to worry. You'll be getting your homemade delicious fluffy biscuit goodness tonight."

"I'm looking forward to it," she said between spoonfuls of Grape Nuts.

"I guess I am too," House said. "Mom always bought those biscuits in a can that exploded when you opened it. Now I'll see what the real deal tastes like."

"The real deal can't compare to Pillsbury."

"I'll have to take your word for it right now. Oh, and I wasn't kidding about the can exploding thing. Once it was so loud Dad came running into the kitchen because he thought it was a gunshot."

Cuddy laughed and said, "No fake gunshots to worry about tonight. Just make sure you have the oven turned on and make enough for the three of us."

"Three?"

"Yes, three. Wilson will be here."

"Having dinner with us again?"

"Yes," she answered. "First you bitch because he's not around and now you're bitching because he is around?"

"I'm not bitching about anything," House insisted, then grinned. "But maybe I'll have him pick up another box of brownies on his way over. What do you say?"


	18. Chapter 18

Cuddy was in the chair closest to the oven. The warmth of it filled the kitchen, as did the mouth-watering scent of the buttermilk biscuits that still had five minutes left to cook.

She could hear Wilson and House bantering back and forth, trading juvenile insults. She wasn't listening to them; instead, she was busy watching House at the sink. Under penalty of death she made him wash up all the dishes he had used, dry them and put them away. He was drying the drinking glass he had used to cut out the perfect circles of biscuit dough. Cuddy was amazed--not only had House washed and put away his dishes without too much whining, he had cooked for her and Wilson. And _enjoyed_ the act of cooking and in turn had enjoyed himself in the process.

She had seen the new cookbooks on the coffee table when she had come home. House was diving headfirst into his new hobby and Cuddy had to admit she was pleasantly surprised to see House try something new.

House put the glass in the cupboard. "All better now?" he asked her.

"Much better," she said, letting the smugness at getting him to do her bidding ooze out of her words and drip all over the place.

House joined them at the table. A dusting of flour was still visible in a handprint shape on his jeans. Earlier he had demanded that she bring him an apron. But there wasn't one to bring. He then informed her that she was buying him one tomorrow. She told him she would buy him one but only if she got to pick it out. With visions of a frilly pink June Cleaver apron in his head, House quietly informed her that he'd pick one up himself.

Cuddy could see the biscuits through the oven door, and they looked like they were baking just fine. She hoped they wouldn't need a few more minutes after the timer went off; she hadn't eaten since lunch and was starving.

"Earth to Cuddy." House's voice pulled her out of her thoughts. "Are you still with us?"

"What?" she asked, turning to face him. "Yes, I'm here."

Nodding at the oncologist, House said, "Tell him he's wrong."

"You're wrong," she deadpanned at Wilson.

"You don't even know what we're talking about!" Wilson exclaimed with a snort. "How can you say I'm wrong?"

"There's a fifty percent chance I'm right about you being wrong, so that's good enough for me," she declared. She turned back to the oven and tried to the read the timer. How long does it take for the damn things to cook, anyway?

From behind her, Cuddy heard Wilson say, "She's been hanging around you too much, House."

"What makes you say that?" the diagnostician asked.

"She's just going along with whatever you say. You've ruined her!"

With a chuckle, House said, "That depends on what your definition of 'ruin' is."

A buzz came from the stove. House got up and peered into the oven. "They look golden brown to me."

Cuddy got a tub of butter from the fridge, then saw House was right; the biscuits a nice golden color, not too light and not too dark. "Pretty good first try, House," she said, and could have sworn she saw him bite back a face-splitting grin.

Peering over his friend's shoulder, Wilson spoke up with, "Well…even I have to say that I'm impressed."

"Thanks," House replied dryly, swatting playfully at Wilson's face. House never would be able to take a compliment, especially when he actually deserved one.

It was a free-for-all as the three doctors fought over the spatula, unable to wait for the biscuits as they piled their plates and attacked the tub of butter, leaving a significant dent in the butter supply.

"Damn, these are good," Cuddy managed to say between bites. She was so hungry she amazed herself by being able to say something while eating.

"You're just saying that because you're hungry and you don't want to hurt my precious feelings." House's voice was full of mischief.

Cuddy had to wait until she had finished chewing before she shot back with, "You're assuming that I ever thought you have any precious feelings to start with."

"Oh _snap_." House wiped his crumb covered hands on his jeans. "Not one of your better comebacks, Cuddy."

"True, but you get my point."

"Which is?"

"I was paying you a compliment. No hidden agenda, just a straightforward compliment."

"He's not used to that kind of thing," Wilson told her.

"Apparently." Cuddy brushed some crumbs from her lap and reached for her second biscuit.

"Hey," House spoke up. "I'm right here, you know."

"Just give him a little time to get used to it," Wilson went on as if House hadn't said anything.

"How much time is a little time?" Cuddy directed the question at both House and Wilson.

The oncologist said, "You know it when--"

The sound of breaking glass rang through the kitchen, bringing the conversation to a screeching halt. Glittering shards and a puddle of milk littered the floor. Cuddy saw House, holding his right thigh, his face distorted in pain


	19. Chapter 19

"House!" Wilson was immediately out of his chair and at his friend's side. "My God, what's wrong? Did you--"

"My leg…," House panted, clutching his right so tightly Cuddy thought he was going to rip through his jeans. "It hurts…"

"What happened?"

"I don't know!" the diagnostician barked. "I was just sitting here and it…and it…"

Cuddy could see the beads of sweat on his hairline trickling down his temple. Her heart dropped as she watched her lover's face twist in pain. "He needs to stretch his leg out. Help me get him on the sofa," she instructed.

They each took an arm and dragged House into the living room. Hearing his cries of agony was ripping her apart from the inside out. Why does he have to be in so much pain? What has he done to deserve this? she thought, then rushed to find his prescription, hoping the pills would ease his pain and hoping that would stop her from feeling so damned helpless. She couldn't let him see her like that, not now. Snatching the little amber bottle from the night stand, she marched back out to him, plastering her best look of doctor-like concern on her face.

"Here." She crouched down beside him and shook two pills into his hand. They were in House's mouth and swallowed in three seconds. He leaned back, closed his eyes and began rubbing his bad leg; Cuddy could see he was fighting to stay calm and in control.

"You okay?" she asked before realizing how stupid that question sounded.

House didn't notice or didn't care. Without opening his eyes, he muttered, "Just let me sit for a while and let the medicine kick in."

"All right. I need to clean up the broken glass. I'll be right back."

"I'll clean it up," Wilson announced, already heading back into the kitchen. "Stay here with him." He was gone before Cuddy could even begin to argue.

Chuckling humorlessly, Cuddy sat on the edge of the sofa, taking care to not jar his bad leg in any way. She had wanted so badly to believe that his pain was a thing of the past, that it was finally under control along with his addiction. That they could it put it all behind them and pick up where they had left off before he went to Mayfield, looking forward to each new bend in the road and what it brought them.

_He's come so far…please don't it be all for nothing…_

"Christ…," House muttered to himself. His teeth were clenched, dark sweat stains bloomed on his t-shirt.

"It'll be okay, House." She brushed her hand against the scruff of his cheek. He seemed to welcome it.

"I know," he replied, though it seemed like he was only saying it because he knew that's what she wanted to hear. "I'm fine."

"I was in the kitchen with you. You're not okay, not yet."

His eyes opened, though they didn't meet hers. She could still see a ripple of the truth of what she'd just said in them. He wasn't okay, and he knew it and he knew that she knew it. The pain still had him in its grip, in a stranglehold, and both of them should have known better to think otherwise.

_What about his addiction…?_

"Ow…dammit!" Wilson's voice broke through the quiet of the living room. "Cuddy, where are the band aids?

"In the cabinet by the stove."

After a few seconds Wilson's unintelligible ramblings, Cuddy turned back to House.

"My leg cramped up this morning," he said without any preamble. "It wasn't nearly this bad, though."

"But your prescription helped, right?" Looking at the bottle, she noted it had one refill left.

"I didn't take it. I took some of your over-the-counter stuff and it helped." He stretched out the full length of the sofa, then turned and met her eyes. The pain seemed to be easing up a bit; he looked a bit more relaxed. "My leg cramps up…it happens. I live with it. But I've never had anything like this happen."

"You've had leg pain like this before," Cuddy pointed out. "I've seen it."

House explained, "It usually builds up over a day or so. I've never had it hit me that fast. I nearly fell out of my chair in there."

"I'm pretty sure I got all the blood drops," Wilson said, walking back into the room. Two band aids encircled the index finger on his left hand. "And all the glass."

"Thank you," Cuddy said, and smiled at him.

The oncologist crouched down beside the sofa. "How's the leg?"

"It's been better," House muttered. "The medication is starting to kick in."

"That's good." Wilson sounded relieved. "You need anything?"

"Yes."

"What is it?"

House looked at his friend and said, "I need a pen and paper."

Wilson frowned. "What for?"

"Because this is going to happen again and I need to be ready for it. I haven't come this far just turn around and end it all with the very reason I wound up at Mayfield in the first place." House began as he struggle to pull himself up into a sitting position. "I'm going to make a list of all the stashes of Vicodin I still have in my apartment, and you're going to get rid of them for me."


	20. Chapter 20

"That list you gave Wilson…," Cuddy began.

"What about it?" House asked.

He was still laying on the sofa, taking up its entire length. Cuddy had pulled the coffee table closer and sat on it rather than make House move and possibly make his leg flare up again.

"You had a dozen hiding places listed on it." She sounded concerned.

"So?"

"_So_?" she echoed. "Is that all can you say? A dozen hiding places, House."

"Would you prefer two dozen, Cuddy?" he asked stoically, his expression unreadable.

"A dozen hiding places. That's a bit extreme, even for you. All for some pills."

"For an addiction," he corrected. "That's what the stashes were for, for hiding the pills for my addiction. I just sent Wilson over to get rid of them. In case you didn't hear me the first time I said that I don't want to go back to the way I was. So what exactly are you bitching about?"

"Are those _all_ your stashes? Was that list complete?"

"Probably not. That's what I could remember off the top of my head. Like the addict I am, I had to make sure I got my next fix. The stashes were just me taking precautions. You knew the extent of my addiction and what happened when I didn't get my fix. You knew how far I'd go and did go to get my Vicodin. Why are you acting so surprised?"

"Because I'm not an addict," she replied.

"But you've known one for a long time."

"Yes, I have." She reached over and took his hand, threading their fingers together. "Knowing one and thinking like one are two different things."

House thought that one over for a bit before he said, "I suppose you're right."

"What about your office? Do you have a hidden stash there?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

"The lupus textbook. Do me a favor and get rid of it. The stash, not the textbook."

"I will," she said, bringing his hand underneath her chin. "How's your leg?"

"It's been better. But it's been worse. Nothing I can't handle at the moment."

She frowned. "You're still in pain."

"I've been in worse pain," he told her. "Like I said, it's nothing I can't handle."

"C'mon," she said, standing up.

"Where are we going?" he asked, suspicious.

"You'll be more comfortable stretched out on the bed."

A devilish grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. "You mean you'll be more comfortable in bed with something to cuddle with, namely me."

"That's another way to put it." She gave his arm a gentle tug. "Let's go."

* * *

Cuddy batted the alarm off and stretched. It seemed like she had just gone to bed five minutes ago and now it was time to get up and charge headlong into another day. She looked over and wasn't the least bit surprised to see his side of the bed empty. She had heard him get up in the middle of the night again. Sitting up, she caught the scent of coffee. The clank of pots and pans and the clink of silverware against plates filtered in. Then the unmistakable sound of the mixer filled the air.

_What the hell…?_

In the kitchen House was hunched over a mixing bowl, twirling the beaters around and around, making the batter in it rise and fall in beige waves. He looked over at her and smiled.

"Good morning!" he yelled over the noise. His voice was so cheerful it had to be fake. "You're just in time. Grab some coffee and have a seat. How many pancakes do you want?"

Cuddy shuffled over to him. Up close she could see the dark circles hanging under his eyes.

"House, did you sleep?" Her words were italicized with worry.

"A little." He seemed determined to keep up his cheery façade. "Sit down. I'll take care of everything. You haven't told me how many pancakes you want."

Cuddy looked around, noticing the sack of flour still on the counter, a set of ghostly white handprints on his sweatpants. He had gone through a lot of trouble to make her some breakfast and the least she could do was eat some of it.

"Three, if you don't mind," she said.

"Three it is." He shooed her away and began pouring batter into the big pan. "I hope you don't mind if I continue the buttermilk theme here. I was hoping you had some fruit to add to the batter but all you had were some mushy apples and frozen peas and I don't think that sounds too appetizing."

"Neither do I," she admitted.

"Anything else? Toast? Eggs?"

"The pancakes are fine," she assured him.

"I think I'll have four. Hopefully they'll taste as good as they smell."

She listened to the sound of the pancakes sizzling for a few moments before she said, "Your leg is still hurting."

"It is," he answered without hesitation.

"How bad?"

"What do you think?"

"You're out here cooking up a storm because it takes your mind off the pain."

House flipped the pancakes before answering, "That's right. It's a good thing I never got around to hiding a stash in your home, isn't it?"


	21. Chapter 21

"You're feeling better," Cuddy said.

"I guess," House muttered, leaning his head onto her shoulder. "It's a dull ache right now. Better than feeling like it's tied up all in knots."

Cuddy smiled as she felt his scruff against the soft skin of her neck, like a cat's tongue. It sent a shiver down her spine, then back up and down again.

"You want to stick with your prescription, or do you want to try something different?"

"I'll stay with it for now," he said. "It's helping."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

He was feeling better, but for how long? Even if his leg wasn't tied up in knots and swinging from the hangman's tree, House himself was. He was worried that the pain wouldn't go away the next time. He was worried that he was going to say something nasty in the heat of the moment and she wouldn't forgive him. He was worried that he was going to find a stash of Vicodin and be unable to help himself, putting him right back at 'Go' without a Get-Out-Of-Jail-Free card or two hundred dollars. He was worried about worrying so much. How much longer could either of them expect him to keep this up?

She reached over and tilted his chin up until their eyes met. "You need to _relax_," she gently scolded.

"Easier said than done. I've got a lot on my mind."

"I know you do, but can't you empty that overactive mind of yours and take a breather for an hour or two?"

"Keeping my mind busy keeps it off the pain. I'm only sitting down because I'm too tired to cook anymore."

"You cooked all day," she noted. "You deserve a break."

"I'm taking one," House pointed out.

"No, you're not. You're sitting here pouting and getting all riled up again."

"You got any better ideas?" he challenged. "Before hopping in the sack with me was your preferred method of unwinding after a long day, whatever did you do to stay sane?"

Cuddy thought for a minute, then it hit her. It was warm, girly scented goodness and just what House needed to unwind. He'd bitch and moan for a half a second, then be a boneless blob within five minutes.

Noticing the mischievous twinkle in her eye, his brow knitted and his mouth pressed into a thin line. "What have I just got myself into?" he mumbled, almost to himself.

"Wait here." It wasn't a request, it was a command.

She rushed out of the room before House could argue.

Now intrigued, House sat there, watching and listening. The squeak of the hall closet drifted into the room, as did the shuffling of her feet. Her shadow appeared then turned and marched back down the hall with her. Then the sound of the bathtub being filled. After a few minutes the air was tinged with the faintest hint of vanilla.

More faint squeaks at the bath water was turned off. Ten seconds later Cuddy reappeared in a t-shirt and shorts, her haired pinned up. As she made her way back around the sofa, she paused to pick up a small remote. A button was pushed and Enya's haunting voice began to stream out of the speakers.

"Let's go," she urged, holding out her hand.

House took it and followed her down the hall to the bathroom. The scent of vanilla was stronger. He noted the light was faint and flickering, then he saw why: Only the small light above the mirror was on, the rest of the soft light came from an array of vanilla scented candles. A tubful of warm water and suds was waiting for someone step into it.

"What is this, Cuddy? Quitting your job at the hospital and opening up a day spa?"

"This is how I kept you from driving me too crazy," she replied. "Now it's going to keep your leg from driving you back to Mayfield."

"A bubble bath is going to help me?"

"Aromatherapy," she clarified. "It's amazing how a warm bath and some scented candles will kill stress. Now get in."

"Do I get a seaweed wrap and cucumber facial, too?"

"Not today. Now get in before I throw you in."

"_Hmph_," he grumbled. "The things I do to keep you happy." He peeled off his shirt and noticed Cuddy clothes were still on. "You're not joining me?"

She shook her head and said, "I don't want to hurt your leg. Maybe next time."

"I'll keep that in mind," he said with a salacious grin, and Cuddy had no doubt that he would.


	22. Chapter 22

Getting into the tub was a chore in itself for House. Cuddy watched, ready to spring into action in case he slipped or needed some help. He didn't, and he lowered himself into the water with a sigh that was heavy with appreciation.

"How's the water?" she asked. "Is it okay?"

"A tad bit hot, but I'll live."

"Everything good? Do you need anything?"

"Not right now," he said, then looked over at her. "Why don't you take a break? You look like you could use one."

Chuckling, she sat on the bathmat and began to lazily skin her fingers in the sudsy water.

"See, Dr. House? This isn't so bad."

"It isn't," he had to agree. Hot bathes and showers helped his leg feel better, but he had never done the whole candle and bubble bath thing before, and he had to admit that the vanilla candles smelled good. It wasn't something he'd do for himself again in the future, but if Cuddy dragged him into a bubble bath again he certainly wouldn't be able to find any reason to object.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, the scent of vanilla making his mouth water. He'd have to raid her ice cream stash later. "So you just lay here and listen to music, huh? I'd have some jazz on, but that's just me."

"Sometimes I have a book or some cookies," Cuddy told him.

"You didn't bring me a book," he said with a fake pout.

"I don't think bodice rippers are your thing."

"They aren't. You actually read that trash?"

"It's like your soaps, but without all the evil twins and amnesiac princesses."

"Touché. You didn't bring me any cookies."

"This was a spur-of-the-moment thing. I don't have any cookies. Maybe next time."

House laughed, a hearty belly laugh she rarely heard from him.

"What's so funny?" she asked.

He snickered, the dimples in his cheeks showing, and replied, "I thought the whole 'bubble bath with chocolate chip goodness' thing was something made up by chick flicks and chick lit. Something too absurd to be true. But now that I'm here with everything but a snack that will go straight to my hips, I have to say that I can see why you would dig this kind of thing."

"Why's that?" Cuddy leaned forward, wanting to hear his answer.

"You're a woman who has the taste for the finer things in life, but not enough time to enjoy them all. As much as you'd like to spend an entire day at the spa with the pampering you so richly deserve, it just isn't possible. Since you can't go to the spa, you do the next best thing and bring the spa to you. Hence the candles, the bubble baths, the fancy body scrub you have stashed under the sink, the manicure sets, and those ridiculously expensive silky robes of yours."

Cuddy smiled. As usual, he hit all the nails on the head. "Very observant."

"Yeah, well, we all but live together. You'd be more shocked if I didn't observe those things," he said, and playfully flicked some suds at her.

"I would," she said. "How would you know how much I spend on my silky robes, anyway?"

"You've left the catalogues laying around and I've looked through them. One lousy robe costs as much as a good pair of sneakers."

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

"It's not. It's just something I won't ever get since I'm not a woman. I suppose they make you feel all pretty inside and that's what you were aiming for. Am I right?"

"They're comfortable and I like wearing them."

"All the better."

"But you do like those silky robes of mine when I'm wearing them."

"Do I?"

"You like taking them off me."

House laughed again. Cuddy was more than glad to hear it.

He said, "Well, in that case, they're worth every penny."


	23. Chapter 23

He stayed in the tub for nearly an hour, and probably would have stayed longer if his hands hadn't pruned so much. After much prodding he admitted that his leg did feel a little bit better. He stayed up for another hour, devouring a heaping bowl of butter pecan ice cream while Cuddy told him about her plans for the rest of week--what she had in mind for the hospital and what they could do after hours.

House mentioned some new recipes he wanted to try as he rubbed his bad thigh for a few moments before going back to attacking his dessert. Cuddy bit her lip to keep herself from asking if his leg was hurting again. Instead she asked him the new recipes he was looking at

He conked out barely five minutes after his head hit the pillow. Hoping the pain would take the rest of the night off and let him get some rest, she slowly ran her fingers through his hair. His new buzz cut felt like Velcro, almost like his perpetual seven o'clock shadow. "Sweet dreams, House," she whispered, then kissed his temple and settled in next to him. With any luck the next thing she would hear would be the alarm clock.

Luck wasn't on her side, or House's.

She woke up to see him reaching for his cane. Barely three hours had passed since she closed her eyes.

"Are you all right, House?"

He stiffened. He had hoped to sneak out without waking her up.

"I'm fine."

Like hell you are, she thought. "Why are you getting up?"

"Woke up and can't get back to sleep," he answered flatly. "That's all."

"Is it the insomnia or the your leg?"

"Both."

"Don't get up," she pleaded, grabbing his wrist. "Please."

"No."

"_Please_."

"Go back to sleep and don't worry about me. I'm fine."

"You're _not_ fine." She reached over and switched on the lamp. "Stop telling me you're fine when you're anything but."

He turned to face her, his eyes narrowed. "What am I supposed to say? What do you _want_ me to say? Tell me what you want me to say and I'll say it."

"House," she began, gently stroking the back of his hand with her thumb, "I'm not going to make you say anything you don't want to say, but if you would learn to let me know what's wrong--"

"My leg hurts and there's not a damn thing anybody can do about it," he answered through clenched teeth. "That's what's wrong. There, I said it and my leg still fucking hurts. Happy now?"

The room suddenly felt stifling, the air thick. "The pain woke you up."

"Yes." He wrenched his hand away and stared at the floor, like he had something to be ashamed of.

"You were fine just a few hours ago." Her voice nearly broke with concern. "What happened?"

"I don't know." Irritation was creeping through with his words. "If I knew that I wouldn't be waking up in the middle of the night wanting to saw my leg off, would I?"

Those last few words gave Cuddy a pause. "Is it that bad?" she asked quietly.

"No, but I'm afraid it will be."

"Is there anything I can do? If there is, just name it. What can I do to help, House?"

Sighing heavily, he said, "Like I said, there's nothing you can do right now, so don't worry about it."

"How am I supposed to do that?" she said, sitting up. "You're in pain, you're miserable and you expect me to just sit here and pretend that everything is fine? Am I just supposed to watch and do nothing while you're suffering?"

He met her gaze and said, "You've done what you could tonight. There is nothing else you can do."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure. The bubble bath was nice and all but there's nothing else you can do to help right now." He stood up. "I'll be in the kitchen. Do you want a midnight snack or something?"

"No," she said with a frown.

House started towards the door, his limp as bad as she'd ever seen it. "All right. You know where I am if you change your mind. If not, I'll see you in the morning."

She turned out the light after he left, then curled up with his pillow. She listened the clang of pots and pans the squeak of cabinet doors for more than an hour before she was able to drift off again.


	24. Chapter 24

The next few days were filled with anguish and pain for both House and Cuddy. He was barely sleeping. What little sleep he got wasn't more than three or four hours a night. His days were spent in the kitchen, cooking up whatever elaborate dish caught his attention and kept his attention away from his leg.

Cuddy was losing sleep as well. Her days were spent at the hospital worrying about him and her nights were spent keeping him company while he stirred sauces and checked the oven.

The only positive thing to come out of the whole thing was the food House made was delicious. Dinner was waiting for her when she got home.

House remembered a few more Vicodin stashes. He sent Wilson to toss them.

"What happens if he decides that he doesn't want you flushing his stashes anymore?" Cuddy asked Wilson after cornering him in his office. "What happens if he decides to find his own stashes and ends up right back where he started?"

"You think he'd do that?"

"He's in pain, Wilson. Cooking can only keep his mind occupied for so long. I know he appreciates us being there for him, but there's only so much we can do as well. It's just a matter of time before he breaks."

"It is," Wilson agreed.

"Yes, it is," Cuddy said, getting flustered.

Wilson met her eyes and said, "Let's just hope one of us is there with him when he does, and that he's not in any condition to grab his keys and leave."

That night Cuddy made House give up his keys and made him promise that he would call her or Wilson if he felt the urge to hunt down some Vicodin come on. In the back of her mind Cuddy knew that House could always call a taxi as a last resort. She also knew that the house would end up burning down as some kind of karmic punishment if she took his phone to keep his keys company. She could only hope House would be too occupied with his pain to contemplate the taxi option.

* * *

"You need some help, House?" Cuddy asked.

"I'm fine," House said without turning around, keeping an eye on the fresh green beans.

"You sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure," he said testily, hoping she would get the message. "Where the hell is Wilson?"

"He's on his way."

"He was supposed to have been here fifteen minutes ago. I'm making this damned lasagna because he wanted it, and now it's almost ready, the beans are almost ready, and he's not here yet!"

"House," Cuddy began gently, "He's probably caught in traffic, and he'll understand if we have to start without him."

"Right," House said grumpily.

"It smells wonderful," she said, trying to change the subject.

"Damn right it does." He wasn't being sarcastic, he was agreeing with her. The pain in his leg hadn't stopped House from eating like a horse, helping himself to seconds and thirds of his own culinary creations.

"I like coming home to all this wonderful food," Cuddy told him.

"I like having someone who appreciates my cooking," House said as Wilson walked in the door.

"Just in time," the oncologist said as he hung his jacket on the back of a chair.

House grumbled, "You're late. Nearly twenty minutes."

"Sorry."

"You should be."

"I can't control the traffic, House." Wilson turned to Cuddy and asked, "Has he been this grouchy all day?"

"Yes," she answered, and rolled her eyes only because House couldn't see her.

"Well, these should cheer you up." Wilson handed some pages to his friend.

Cuddy asked, "What are those?"

House answered, "Cookie recipes."

"Cookies?"

"Yes." The diagnostician grinned devilishly. "Time to fatten you up."

* * *

The huge batch of peanut butter chocolate chunk cookies House planned on making just to piss Cuddy off was going to have to a wait a few minutes. House realized that he hadn't checked his email since lunch and it was now nearly three in the morning, so he fired up his laptop and logged in. Most of it was the usual junk: See hot teenage sluts in action! Enroll in photography school now! Free Viagra samples!

Delete. Delete. Delete.

Then his eyes settled on a message from Wilson. It had been sent nearly three hours earlier and the subject line read: URGENT!

Can't be too damned urgent. You would have called me if it had been a real emergency, House thought as he clicked on it.

There was only a short message that read "_Thought you might find this interesting" _and a url.

House clicked on it and read all about a video game designer who wasn't happy with the doctors at Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. He provided a list of his symptoms and the promise of a reward for anyone who could do what the doctors couldn't--figure out what the hell was wrong with him.

As his eyes ran down the list of symptoms, House opened up a blank page and began to make a new list of potential illnesses that could fit.

The cookies never got made.


	25. Chapter 25

_The last chapter. Thanks to all my readers. You guys are the best of the best!_

* * *

Something was up. House wasn't in the kitchen when she got up, he was on his laptop; notes and several medical journals and textbooks were piled next to him.

"What is this?" Cuddy asked, gesturing at the mess.

"Just a little something I'm working on," House answered blankly, not bothering to look at her.

"What kind of something?"

"A project."

"What sort of project could this be at six in the morning?"

"A private project." He shooed her away with a wave of his hand.

Cuddy took the hint and ate her cereal in the kitchen, listening to House mumble to himself and the incessant typing on the keyboard.

* * *

She came back from a late lunch to find House lounging on the sofa in her office. At first she thought he had finally gotten around to cooking and was going to force some of his gourmet goodies on her, but didn't see and kind of container filled with fattening chocolate chunk goodness. Nothing out of the ordinary other than House and his cane.

"Did you get bored?" she asked, hanging up her coat.

"Nope."

"I've already been to lunch and have a meeting in half an hour."

"I'm not here about lunch," he said. "This won't take long."

"What is it, House?"

"I slipped," he answered blithely.

Her tuna and spinach salad started to do flips in her stomach. He _slipped_. He couldn't take it anymore and hunted down a Vicodin stash. Now he was here to confess and start the road to recovery all over again and the only thing she could do was go along with it and give him the support he needed--

His voice interrupted her thoughts. "I know what you're thinking."

After a few beats she said, "You do?"

"You think I'm back on the Vicodin."

She crossed her arms. "You're not?"

"No."

Still skeptical, Cuddy asked, "Are you lying to me?"

"No."

"If you're not back on the Vicodin, what did you mean when you said you slipped?"

House reached into the inside pocket of his jack and pulled out a small slip of pale yellow paper folded in half, holding it out to her. She took it and opened it. It was a check for twenty-five thousand dollars. She recognized the signature immediately. Foreman's patient. The video game designer who posted his symptoms online in hopes of getting the answer Foreman and his team couldn't provide.

"Your project," she said, almost to herself.

House gloated, "A rather lucrative one, if I do say so myself."

"How did you find out about this?"

"Does it matter?"

No, it didn't.

"So how come Foreman isn't in here screaming his head off about you?" Cuddy asked.

"Because one of the patient's flunkies delivered the check to me in the parking lot. Foreman will figure it out eventually. Maybe this will teach him to pay a little more attention to the symptoms and a little less time worrying about turning into a prick like me."

"You're the prick who solved the case."

Laughing softly, he said, "Can't argue with that. But I didn't solve the case because I'm a prick. I solved it because I followed the clues."

"Good job, House." She walked over the sofa and sat down, handing his check back to him. "I hope you get to use your amazing detective skills when you get a new job."

"I'm not getting a new job."

"What do you mean?"

"It means I'm not going anywhere."

"But you said--"

"I said a lot of things." He sat up. "I haven't told you about the bonus I received."

"Bonus from what?"

"From solving this case."

Cuddy raised an eyebrow. "Is a flunky going to deliver another check to you in the morgue?"

"Not that kind of bonus," he told her, standing up. "I spent half the night and all morning working on the answer. Hours and hours had gone by and the only time I moved was to get some coffee and the textbooks, and to pee. It wasn't until after you had left this morning that I happened to glance at my prescription and realize that I hadn't taken a pill since midnight. I hadn't taken a pill because I didn't one. Because my leg wasn't hurting."

"Are you serious?" Cuddy stood up and walked over until she was standing toe-to-toe with him. "How does your leg feel now?"

"Fine."

It was the truth. His face was relaxed, not pinched with pain. The electricity was back in his eyes.

"Have you taken any pills at all today?"

"Not one."

"That's great!" Her face split into an wide grin, but she was still puzzled about something. "So what did you mean when you said there was no new job?"

"Exactly that. That I don't need a new job now. I don't _want_ a new job now. I need this in my life, Cuddy. I need to solve the mystery, to put the last piece of the puzzle into place. That's something I'm not going to get from poking syringes into lab rights all day. I want my old job back."

"Are you sure about this, House?"

With a crooked grin, he answered, "Would I drag myself all the here if I wasn't?"

"No, you wouldn't," she agreed. "If you want the job back, it's yours."

"Thank you." House sounded more than relieved. "I want to start tomorrow."

"House, you know it doesn't work that way. You still have at least two weeks before you get your license back."

House frowned. "There must be _something _I can until do until then. I can't sit at home baking cookies for the next two weeks."

Cuddy smiled and patted him on the cheek. "Don't worry, there is. You can sit in and consult. No contact with the patient and Foreman is still in charge. Think you can handle that?"

Smiling back, House replied, "I guess we'll find out, won't we?"

--The End.


End file.
